Twin Legions
by deadliestfan
Summary: Worlds collide as Azeroth and the world of Warhammer Fantasy are maneuvered into connection by scheming gods. A portal appears in Norsca, one that entities on both worlds are eager to utilize as mortals are left to deal with the consequences. The novel side of my Warhammer-Warcraft crossover.
1. Beastial Ambition

" _Mortals and daemons alike dangle along strings of sinew in ethereal winds, their limbs dancing to tugs of leering aetheric giants. All live and die to the whims of the divine, for they are the controllers of destiny. A few seek to twist threads in desires contrary to those of the gods. Pity them, for they almost invariably achieve naught but their own demise, strangled in threads beyond their control as the Great Puppeteers mock and scorn. Save your ire, your fear, your hate and your contempt for those rare few who succeed, who subvert the designs of the Lords of All, for in doing so they bring greater despair to the world than even divine minds can conceive. " Tzarbeck the Forlorn, Scholar of Fate Year Unknown_

* * *

 _When a mortal dreams, he enters our home. What they call the Realm of Souls. The Aethyr. The Warp. Hell. Graceless and unstable they mold tiny corners of this realm into their own reality of fevered visions and dark desires hidden from other mortals. Hallucinations of desperate and perverted fantasies, ambitious dreams of triumph, aspirations of grandeur and more. These dreams serve as windows for my kind to peer into the depths of their putrid souls. With knowledge comes power and with desire comes opportunity. We are the wolf that salivates at an open door; the murderer equipped with a stolen key. We break apart the cesspit of unconscious desires and mold souls like clay on a potter's wheel. Often the act is done unseen. Limited by definition and design._

 _I see them even now. Their dreams, their desires. I always have been able to see them, even before my ascension. That set me apart from the tribe of mud-dwellers that I once called my own. I could see through the strutting of chieftains and the boasts of hunters. Weak, they were, their insecurity hidden beneath animal rags of subpar skill and lamentable cleverness. I could see the insincerity behind their every deed as these so-called 'warriors' strutted for favor to procure advancement of power or else gifts of food or flesh. Even my own forebears, who scraped together my fleshy form after a night of unthinking passion, saw me and the flesh they hoped I would spawn as a means for their own comfortable future._

 _I despised them, hated them, scorned them and, when the mood arose, manipulated them to my own amusement. Brother was set against brother over the most trivial of matters. Lovers who thought themselves star-destined driven asunder by desires kept hidden from one another._

 _The loathing was mutual. I remember their response. The Shunning. Ostracism. Insults and Fights. I won every petty conflict, for my skill at arms already exceeded mortal men and I would find ways to reveal the darkest desires in a man's heart in front of his cohorts. However while I was satisfied taking joy in such minor mischief I was naive, at that time, to the true depths of hate in a mortal heart._

 _I still remember it. The ambush. The beating-without-end. The torture and disfigurement. The cage of wicker and dung, sticks of filth impaled into my side. Sacrificed before a crude effigy of stone The vision of my whole tribe spitefully spitting and cursing me, even my progenerators . Satisfied with my fate, they left me to the elements of the long, dry summer._

 _Oh how I raged to the heavens! Cried out threats of retribution and despair. I needn't have bothered. This was not the conclusion of my tale, merely the first paragraph of the prologue. That night, as spiteful youth came to add to my torment, I discovered I was not the manipulator of hidden desires that I had so envisioned myself to be. I was the lord of them, the master of the dark in the mortal heart and, later, the physical darkness that manifested all around. The youth were the first to discover such abilities but they would not be the last that night._

 _In the morning it rained, drenching untended fires and dampening the putrid smell of freshly rotting corpses. To this day I wonder- did the sky weep for the events that transpired the night prior or those which were to come?_

 _As I allow a fragment of my mind to peer into the Aethyr I see them still, these hidden soul-selves, their dreams gestating like many maggots on a fetid corpse-world. Sometimes I snatch them up and manipulate these dreams for my own amusement. Sometimes I snuff them out. Such is my purview, my right as the mightiest of my kind. For now, I am content to observe as a new rot takes hold. The odor tells all._

 _Fear, universal and delicious. Apprehension. Dread. Despair. Excitement, ambition and frothing madness. Mortal dreams are fragments of wiser sub-consciousness, acknowledging what the so-called rational mind willfully ignores._

 _The End Times have come._

 _I know well the truth of this claim for I am its author and the realization of its ultimate destiny. Already, the conclusion has been written in blood. Even now my son-in-shadow- moves to claim the final instrument of his destiny. His ascension will herald my return._

 _And Yet. And yet. And yet._

 _There have always been those that would deny my majesty, my right to rule. Brother daemons, resentful of ancient slights. Mortal usurpers- traitors and cowards who have always lusted after my majesty. My own son amongst them, a reluctant tool who schemes to turn against his maker and claim a destiny independent of I. He will fail, for I have already written it. No, there are only four foes whose enmity matters._

 _Even now, as I listen to my servant's prattling, I seethe. A contemptuous figure, this servant is. A daemon of miniscule power, an insignificant fly who reports to the spider. A creature so weak that only its bandages- like that of a Nekeharan corpse- hold its form together. I could destroy it by unwinding a single thread._

 _And yet, I cannot deny its usefulness for it- and its sibling- have a mastery of the shadow exceeded only by myself. No man nor demon can hide from the darkness that accompanies their every movement. With a voice akin to a maddening whisper it speaks, telling of the contradictory plots and mad visions of Tzeentch. From the inanities a singular plot emerged, a thread to a story that makes every fiber of my being quake with rage! The gods are no longer content to simply conquer the planet- they want to destroy it entirely!_

 _Betrayal! These impudent gods had forgotten their ancient bargain! This world is mine to conquer, mine to rule and mine to destroy, if such is my desire._

 _For them, I was the chink is this world's armor; the festering cancer behind the warrior's martial mastery. I broke this world's great last hope across my malevolent will and, in return, they made a pact that has echoed across time. They must honor- they_ _ **WILL**_ _honor- it._

 _I know of this gate, for in ages past I warred to claim it. I commanded untold legions into hundreds of battles fought over vast plains of ice against creatures that belonged to neither the Aether nor the physical world but somewhere in between. Millions died at my command and were it not for divine treachery the device would have been claimed._

 _And yet, the artifact's defender, Ulric, had lost much of the vast power he once commanded. Only shards remain. The portal will be mine and along with it the fate of the world._

 _I dismiss the servant with a wave of my hand. Here he will remain until I have further need of him. I will claim the artifact myself….with the help of some pawns._

* * *

 _With a bloodied snout and paws of gore,_

 _He stood above all as the strongest gor._

 _Then the Beastlord gave a vicious roar,_

 _Declared himself lord forevermore ._

 _As his gaze upon the heavens did fall,_

 _Confidence shattered and he felt small,_

 _While In the eyes of beasts he stood tall,_

 _To the four he was a king of thralls._

 _From dawn since no Beast hath been made Prince._

 _Verses of the Damned, Scorethus , Poet of Tzeentch_

The sky was dark, devoid of stars, as if the heavens themselves were afraid to gaze upon the depths of Drakwald Forest. For in those darkest reaches the barbarous brayed, cavorted and engaged in the most depraved actions their bestial minds could imagine. Hundreds of thousands of them gathered across crude stomping grounds riddled with out of control campfires and rickety structures of bone and human hide. An ignorant observer might call it a beastkin city of sorts however such a statement could not be farther from the truth. There was no permanence here, no civil society or cultural aspirations besides rutting and war and, most of all, no laws save one: Obey the Braylord.

Khazrak permitted the gathering. Though such base displays of debasement, undertaken on human captives, had lost its taste with the Beastlord, he knew that the herd needed to satiate their bloodlust on another, for if they did not they would turn on each other. The Beastlord leaned forward, his muscular form shifting the seat underneath him while his weighted chainmail hung loosely of his body.

Sitting on a wicker throne adorned with skulls and human hide he watched as a man was sheered of the feeble sheets of metal that he wore like a sheep's extra skin. He was then beaten, tossed and forced to walk bare over a carpet of burning wooden shards, each step driving hot splinters through his feet. The man yelped and attempted to jump out, only to be hurled bodily back in by a mocking gor. The man landed on his rear and the screams reached a new crescendo.

Khazrak gave a braying snort of laughter; okay, _this_ sort of debasement hadn't _completely_ lost its taste. They had reason to celebrate too. Another army of man had been ambushed, surrounded and gutted. Like wolves to the moose Khazrak's herds had brought the metal clad army down utterly, with only a few humans allowed to flee to bring word to their fellows.

Khazrak had learned early on that fear and rage were as valuable weapons as axe and spear. Most humans were prey-animals and would act like frightened sheep . The fear would spread and the sheep would bleat and flee to their shepherds like the One Eye. Meanwhile, those shepherds would react in wrath and become more desperate to achieve their victory. That desperation would lead to mistakes which, when against Khazrak, quickly proved fatal.

Were it not for one factor, Khazrak and his hordes would already have achieved victory over this province. Audibly, almost without control, Khazrak began to growl, causing gors near him to back away, though they made a show of doing so naturally, so as to not draw Khazrak's wrath at such displays of weakness. However, the Beastlord paid them no mind, driven already to fury by the hateful subject on his mind.

Buildings, towers and walls. Artifices of Stone and Wood, carved out unnaturally so as to allow lambs to survive the predations of hungry wolves. Those 'Structures' were abominations to the natural order, affronts and insults directed to the gods who had, since the dawn of time, ordained man as prey and beast as predator. Without those god-cursed walls Khazrak would have overthrown Todbringer long ago, for even taking the smallest of those structure groupings-what man called 'forts' – invariably cost the Beastlord more beasts than their were men in the fort.

Worse, taking the mountain-fort, called in their foul tongue 'Middenheim', had long proven an impossible task to any scion of beastkind. Khazrak had long vowed to be the first to succeed however even he, despite what he said in speeches of bravado, privately acknowledged the extreme difficulty of the task and knew that nothing less than every Beast in the forest all marching under his God-given command would be required to bring the mountain-fort down.

As Khazrak leaned back on his throne of bones another Beastman leaned forward on his own throne of skulls and defied symbols of the weak gods of man. Khazrak grated his teeth and tightened his fists- an instinctive reaction in a culture where every gesture could be considered a challenge- before forcibly relaxing. It would do no good to challenge _this_ Beastman, for the other was his shaman, Malagor. Gifted with the Breath of the Gods, the shaman was typically the only figure who the Beastlord was forced to respect for in addition to magical ability, the shaman could magically commune with daemons and, rumor had it, the gods themselves. Still, Khazrak had the shaman before Malagor bent around the horns and claimed more or less full control of the brayherd. The arrival of the 'Dark Omen" had coincided with the vicious executions of the previous shamen by the newcomer.

Beastmen weren't built to share power, not truly, and the lord of the Drakwald was one of the most prideful of his kind. Meanwhile Malagor, Khazrak was forced to admit, was far more willful and domineering than any shaman he met previously. Worse, was the favor of the gods was clearly visible for all to see, for unfurling from his back were a pair of wings as long as a minotaur was tall. Khazrak hated the shaman with a passion and thoroughly suspected such sentiment was mutual.

Malagor turned towards his lord and acknowledged him with a sardonic nod of the head, his face twisted into something half a smile, half a sneer. Khazrak once again suppressed his anger, as Malagor raised up a skull-cup filled to the brim with blood and wine looted from the fallen army's supply wagon. The braying man-god then proposed a toast in a manner that mocked, crudely, the way human nobles proposed toasts to their lords. Khazrak suspected humanity wasn't the only thing being mocked with this gesture.

The shaman spoke in a form that was a mixture of grunts, snorts, and the subtly daemonic tones of the Dark Tongue. 'Khazrak won mighty victory for Dark Masters! Man-filth weaker now! Trap them inside their forts Beastlord! Burn and topple them to the ground!"

Malagor practically bellowed these words. Beastmen dozens of feet away paused in their celebrations to bray in approval. The lesser shamen- those who Malagor had allowed to live- roared with more enthusiasm than they ever had for Khazrak, with a wary eye on the Winged Shamans staff. Khazrak suppressed a snort. Cowards. Lickspittles. Unworthy sheep.

Around them the shadows in the camp grew larger, as if the physical corruption that lay within every Beast's heart was pouring out into the shades and engulfing what light the fires brought. Khazrak felt it in the air, his pulse quickening and his breathe growing heavier. He wanted to fight, to tear and rend! Nevertheless, with a discipline that surprised even him, Be'lakor stilled these emotions to respond

"Soon shaman! Fort ruins good but not enough. One eyed man the target! Break and slaughter one eye! Man armies flee like sheep before wolves after One Eye's death. This Khazrak declares!"

Next to him his Bestigors, eager to demonstrate their loyalty, brayed loudly in agreement as Khazrak pumped his chest with self-pride. That some of their eyes fell on his Scourge made Khazrak feel all the more proud, for it was well that his servants respected his power. Then Khazrak was torn from his thoughts as Malagor struck his own staff loudly against the ground, sending out sparks and a low moan like a dying Tuskagor.

"One eyed man good, but he is just a manlord! Death will cause man to waver, not break! Burn forts, burn homes, smash temples! Show man his gods are nothing! This say Malagor, this say Dark Masters! "

The bestigor bray dulled down, none willing to gainsay the Dark Gods. Normally Khazrak too would grumble but grow quiet, for short was the reign of the Beastlord who lost the respect of his shaman. Not this time though. The air was electrified, as Khazrak could feel the long simmering rage in his heart uncoil itself like a serpent poised to strike.

"Malagor speak for Malagor! Khazrak Beastlord here! Dark Masters gave Khazrak power, Dark Masters make Khazrak leader here, not tiny winged shaman!"

The only way Khazrak could have uttered a more heretical statement is he declared the Wolf God was his lord. Shamen have long been regarded as the voice of the gods. Such had always been the Beastman way and shamen grew furious at the slightest perceived notion of a challenge.

Malagor did so now. He slammed his staff to the ground with such force that the nearest two base shamen – who had been growling with unfeigned outrage- were blasted off their feet, their bodies colliding with trees with incredible force. Sensing, now, a change in the air roars and braying cries brought many of the drunken revelers from their debauchery. Believing that through acts of cannibalism they would inherit the strength of the fallen, those gors whose wits remained above the influence of liquor salivated- visibly- as they realized that one of their leaders could be killed, with all the power contained within ripe for devouring.

Behind them, unseen by all, shadows slithered out from past the treeline to consume yet more of the campground halting, only just, by the multitude of camp fires.

"You dare, welp! Malagor ageless! Malagor seen the rise and fall of Gorthor. You nothing to Gorthor! You nothing to Malagor! "

Malagor looked around for support and found it, for the position of shaman was well respected and Malagor was undoubtedly a powerful shaman. A few of the Bestigors stood among the shaman's supporters, a sight that filled Khazrak with no little fury. And yet….

He was not personally popular, not in the way Khazrak was. The Dark Omen was as single-minded as a minotaur and his blood greed when it came to the destruction of man's temples and more than once he had forced the brayherd to march without rest or celebration as if they were they were the soul-stripped metal clad cattle of man, forbidden from expressing the truths of their nature. A few whispered- when the shaman was out of easrshot- that Malagor had inflicted unholy atrocities upon the brayherd in the form of these 'forced marches' and his loud insistence that refugee convoys be ignored to pursue those structures of mannish faith.

True, Khazrak himself had sometimes urged long marches through the night to ambush an imperial army thought safe dozens of miles away and, true, the Beastlord had allowed refugee convoys to escape so that he could follow their trail to their new sanctuary. However, the Beastlord had always tried to delicately balance such occasions with grandiose celebration and debauchery afterwards. Khazrak recognized what the bray-shaman could not, deluded as he was by centuries of boundless arrogance. The fighting prowess of the Braylord- or even the magicks of a shaman- counted for little when measured against the primordial fury of the Cloven Ones. To keep their fickle loyalty, Khazrak offered both the steak and the whip when needed, while Malagor disdainfully relied on a mixture of his staff and false promises whose impact was gradually diluted over time.

The effects of this showed. Echoes of what might have been the faintest glimmers of personal loyalty warred with fear of the unnatural and the divine. Khazrak's Bestigors made the first move, taking great pains to move in front of their lord to growl, snap and threaten with mighty polearms longer than a man. Meanwhile, Malagor's sycophantic shamen stomped and cursed in the threatening tongue of daemons as many opportunistic gors lined up behind.

The shadows were all around them now. Even though they touched nothing, Khazrak could feel a suffocating presence envelop him, like a physical weight on his chest pressing him down underneath the waters of the Delb River. Khazrak shook his head violently, like a great minotaur trying to cast off annoying fleshflies. That part of his mind capable of rational thought roared desperate warnings and whimpered piteously. Khazrak felt his own mouth move in a fearful moan, though he knew not why. The taste of weakness only heightened his rage further.

It seems he was not the only one. Several of Khazrak's bestigors, already riled up, threw back their heads and roared to the heavens before charging towards the shamen whose curse words turned into incarnations of power. Many of those Bestigors fell to their knees, growling howling and gibbering, their devolution complete. The distance however was too short and in another flash the Bestigors had reached the melee. Like proverbial fire the fighting spread as gors and ungors of all sorts took advantage of the opportunity to kill their rivals, ascend their primitive hierarchies or just to sate the eternal bloodlust that lay within the heart of every beastkin.

Khazrak shook his head once more- this wasn't right. Normally, a Bestigor wouldn't dare look a shaman in the eye, much less attack. This brawl would not help the Braylord achieve his long desired victory over the count nor his more ambitious, personal goal. Meanwhile Malagor glowered with eldritch power, his staff shining a pale green light that pierced the shadows, revealing a hint of what was hidden.

"Khazrak lost his mind along with his eye. Now Khazrak One-Eye will be Khazrak No-Eyes! "

The Bray-shaman muttered the beginnings of a terrible curse as Khazrak, heart pounding in his chest, at last realized, exactly, the cause of this madness.

"Wait. Not Khazrak who speaks! Not Malagor, either!" The Shaman's face contorted into pure confusion as Khazrak's eyes widened in epiphany. He pointed at the shadows

"Daemon!"

Malagor turned in the direction of Khazrak's outstretched finger, though careful to do so in a manner which kept the braylord in partial view. Caution ceded to incredulity ceded to rage, as the shaman's magical witchsight caught view of what mortal eyes saw as barely obscured. With a rough incantation light blossomed from his staff, shifting the shadows away from the interloper.

Revealed now to the world, the daemon grinned, its blackened teeth reflecting an unquestionably dark soul and darker portents for those who viewed it. Its face was sharpened, chiseled, almost emaciated, akin to the features of the ghouls of the south. Jutting out and backwards from its forehead were a pair of horns the envy of any gor and adjourned with metallic rings and unrecognizable bones. The jewels of the crown were, of course, the eyes which glowed sanguine with hateful intelligence and stood as a window to the unquestionably dark soul underneath.

Like the braylord, the daemon shared aspects of man's accursed form, though he was far more muscular than any mortal human could ever achieve. However, while Khazrak's form was covered in flea infested fur, the daemons' was dry and flaky like the scales of a snake. His feet were cloven and the creature was adjourned with many skulls, scrap metal and other, unidentifiable relics. Arching his back, the daemon stood as tall as an armored Minotaur and many times more frightening, with a set of dark wings akin to a bat's that made Malagor's seem comparatively pitiful.

Around them, the others gors, brays and ungors ceased their conflict, awed by the appearance of a denizen of the Beyond. Some of the weaker ones fell to their knees in reverence. However, the affect only went so far and, in the distance, Khazrak could hear continual fighting as blood-addled and drunk gors failed to notice the supernatural phenomena near their Beastlord.

It spoke in discordant tones that packed the slightest trace of an echo. "Oh your more intelligent than most of your breed, aren't you beast? You're the bull who knows the herd is tumbling towards the cliff, the cow who sees the farmer's cleaver and recognizes its intent. "

The daemon exuded an aura of such primeval malevolence that Khazrak felt his bowels involuntarily clench. He was one of the stronger ones. Some could not hold themselves from the fear and voided themselves loudly. The reak of secretion filtered in the air, mixing with that of blood and sulfur and tangible hatred and contempt.

As Khazrak mustered his fear to respond, Malagor moved first, his words magically altered to portray the confidence that his slightly shaking form could not fully show.

"Daemon why are you here? Do you bring message from the Dark Ones? Dark Ones speak to Malagor through dreams, you are not needed! "

The Daemon's rich laughter erupted like maggots from a nurgle-bloated corpse, the force of it striking the herd like a wizard-wrought wind. The emotions were palatable, sentiments able to be not only heard but felt and even tasted. It was like poison on the tongue, the raw flavor of scorn, contempt and mockery threatening to overwhelm his gag reflex. Many beasts around him were not so lucky, falling to the floor to vomit forth their meals, blood and an unmistakably dark substance.

"Do not lie to me, you gibbering goat! The Lords of All do not bother themselves with furred insects. Instead, they send their servants who had fallen out of favor to do their entreaties. "

The Shaman responded with anger, rage suppressing his instinctive fear. His staff was slammed against the ground and shot fist sized balls of fire in all directions. Two hit nearby Beastmen, who screamed horribly as the warpfire burned through fur, skin and flesh with frightening ease. The other nearby Beastmen, who had cautiously armed themselves and now had the daemon surrounded, took extra steps back from mage and daemon both.

" I Malagor am not to be mocked! I shattered man fortifications and despoiled their godly men in great multitudes! You are weak daemon-thing. Your shadow cannot hide before me!"

A boast and a lie. One that Khazrak saw through instantly for obvious reasons . The daemon could too; once again Khazrak felt the odd sensation of _tasting_ contempt.

"All I hear is pitiful bleating, little lamb. You saw me only because I willed it! Had it been my desire, I could quench your fetid heart in my hands before your body even recognized it was missing. And then, when your soul is sent howling to the void, we would see how much the gods value their crowfather."

Khazrak, still struggling to temper his instinctive fear, stepped forward. Though a tiny portion of his spiteful soul was pleased with the public humiliation of his hated rival, it was drowned out by those primal emotions of fear, distrust, and the poised apprehension.

"What do you want? Daemons only come to us to seek ruin on man, so who do you want dead and why should my herd help?" Khazrak put an emphasis on his ownership of the brayherd, an act which elicited a low growl from his would-be usurper rival. Though secretly satisfied, Khazrak cast aside the opportunity to leer, for it was the daemon that held his attention.

The Daemon smiled; a deeply terrifying sight that reminded Khazrak of the maddening view of the Jabberslythe. However, it was what the daemon said that sent instinctive chills of fear down his spine.

"So asks Khazrak the Cunning, the sharpest tool among an arsenal of blunted clubs. You wish to know my motives, Braylord? Bask in your self-importance, your soulful conceit, for I am here for _you._ "

Reflexively, the Beastlord felt himself reaching for his Scourge and sword. Though beasts, daemons and men all worshipped the same gods, among the wise of both mortal races there was an acknowledgement that carrying daemonic interest invariably resulted in a bleak fate. Khazrak had dealt with scheming daemons before; petty things who gibbered and drooled, or else made salacious promises while moving with murderous intent. These creatures- those who tried to manipulate the braylord, anyway- had been invariably broken and bound by Khazrak's shaman, and then forced to serve the beastherd, for a time. Such was not an option here, given the power of the daemon present.

It continued, glancing around malevolently at the gathered crowd, some still kneeling in worship, others apprehensively grasping their weapons.

"I see souls that gleam as bright as soot, depthless things fit only for minnows and tadpoles. One-dimensional. Bland morsels with blander destinies. I see pawns of pawns , vast faceless armies whose sole purpose is to move the lowliest of cat's paws a single space. In the sight of Dark Gods and the Prince of Ruins you all are corporeal yawns, a herd of living afterthoughts. " The herd struggled to digest the daemon's words, but its contempt was still palpable. A few began to growl and then bray angrily, their fear falling to rage, as the daemon finished his musing with a horrible smile. "Perhaps your hatred of man is motivated not by contempt or abhorrence of their 'civilization' but envy, for the eyes of the gods are ever fixated on man. You are the neglectful child that seethes from afar at his brother's favor. "

The Beasts were roaring now and three were unable to control their rage. Bellowing hatred and hefting giant cleavers aloft, they charged only to bisected in half by a sword, obscured in shadows, that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Throughout the movement Be'lakor's eyes never left Khazrak's own even as his sword hand weaved with incomparable skill.

"But you are different, braylord. Your inner ambition shines like a beacon on a stormy sea. I see your desires as clear as the simmering rage that coils around your heart, hissing and poised to strike. Do so if you must, though the act would only serve to give this goatherd a new braylord. You would fail to achieve your greatest, innermost desire. "

Despite his rage, Khazrak heard himself asking through gritted teeth "Which is? "

The daemon spread his arms wide and unfurled his wings

"To be me, of course. "

Despite their fixated anger, Khazrak heard an audible gasp among the crowd as they perceived the scale of their master's ambition. His innermost ambition revealed, Khazrak cursed and drew his weapons, though he was still reluctant to attack the daemon, having seen its power firsthand. Perhaps he would have his gors engage it first….

To the side, Malagor snorted and brayed softly. "If true, Khazrak fool then! Gods may bless but no mortal can ascend to the divine. "The shaman pointed himself "Immortality is possible like Crowfather! We are the children of the gods, not man-filth, and the gods reward us well! Look around, see how many carry divine blessings!"

Khazrak did not need to look around, for he knew by heart that many of his brood carried the mutations of the Dark Gods. Tentacle arms, scaly skin, multiple eyes even multiple sets of horns, though those so blessed rarely managed to live for long, as beastkind was notoriously touchy regarding horn size. Rarer still gifts existed, like the ability to breathe fire, bleed blood that burned or even tusks in the manner of boars. And then there were those that received multiple mutations at once however, as a rule, the herd preferred not to talk about them and their ghoulish fate….

Rather than be impressed the daemon laughed, its mockery and scorn once again palpable.

"So lies the blind to the sighted. Mortal fool! The gifts you receive are but pittance compared to those of your man-kin! For every tentacle of the deep the Dark Prince sees fit to bless upon you, man received an arm forged in the fashion of the Seekers of Decadence. For every skin of scales, the Changer of Ways gifts a hide of diamonds to man. Agelessness? Every human warrior of ruin, regardless of allegiance, receives _that_ blessing- and more besides. Look at your own form, witch doctor. It's a parody of my own, nothing more, a winged hand-me-down from uncaring parents. Your fate has long been written – you will die to a sorcerer of greater skill than your own. A thousand times a prince of ruin may die and always we will return. Never has any beast attained my form, nor that of my brothers! -"

"Enough! " This time Khazrak was the one who shouted, fury at last eliminating any remaining traces of fear. This was HIS camp and no interloper was going to mock him in it! Khazrak glanced at Malagor and saw that the powerful shaman was in silent agreement. Good! His magical strength would no doubt be needed. All around him his gors were braying and pawing at the earth, eager to strike! A grunt that would signal the attack command was on his lips, if a bit reluctantly, for he knew that many of his followers would likely have to die-

"Don't be a fool, Braylord. For fates can be changed, new destinies can be written. A path is, at last, open and only I can illuminate the way forward."  
Khazrak snorted . The arrogance and conceit of daemons was second only to that of man. How many beastlords had been led to their deaths by the lies of the aetheyric kind? Uncounted, since the days of the First Beast, no doubt.

"You are not the first, you know. The first of your kind to seek the sweetest fruit of the gods. Many have, but only three came close to attaining it. One is known, a legend among your kind. Gorthor the Cruel, greatest Beastlord yet of these lands. A promise was made to the gods, a promise he failed to uphold. The death of the Empire; the destruction of Sigmar's sons. "

Again, Khazrak snorted derisively. "Khazrak will destroy Sigmar's sons- and Ulric's time will come soon! Then Khazrak claim Gorthor's prize. " Khazrak finished with a bit of a roar, as he once again felt the eyes of his kind upon him.

The smile of the daemon expressed tangible doubt. "Your time is running out, mortal. Even now portents align anew. In the north a new Everchosen arises. When he ascends to his position, this warlord will lead the legions of the north to sweep through the Old World like flame to a forest. The Empire will burn before your prize can be claimed. "

The braylord's breath paused audibly at the word Everchosen. That was an old word, a dread word. A name told in hushed voices around quiet campfires, a name to cow ever the most unruly of Beastmen.

"The strands of your fate unwind rapidly like yarn cast down temple steps. Soon, it will be gone completely. The opportunity will be lost, an opportunity that- without my aid- is a fruit beyond your reach. "

"Who are you, intruder? Why do you come to my camp? You speak nothing but mockery and half-truths!"

The intruder stood tall, his demeanor one of extreme pride.

"Who am I? I am Be'lakor, first of the Daemon Princes. The first man to ascend beyond the bounds of mortality! I was there when the First Beast arose from its blasphemous creation in the steamy jungles of the south. I rallied your ancestors, the degenerate tribes of man and my own kind to banners of flayed skin and waged war on the nascent races of the world. From pole to pole my dominion extended, from pole to pole monuments were built to my unequitable majesty. The world itself stood at the cusp of my eternal domination! I am the mightiest monster you will ever meet, mortal."

The daemons' aura exuded majesty, glorious and unholy, the pride of his accomplishments being felt as much as heard. Khazrak once again shrugged off the supernatural aura but this time, many more did not. They fell to their feet, their wide eyes in aweful worship of the creature before him. The same creature that even now held his hand, outstretched, in a dramatic gesture of salvation.

"I set the standard for every dark-seeking man and woman that followed. Only under my tutelage may you do the same for your beastkin. "

For a moment, Be'lakor's aura made it impossible for Khazrak to doubt the sincerity of the daemon. Khazrak snorted, then again, trying to clear the aura but it was for naught. Tentatively, even as the majority of his followers had fallen to their knees, he reached out for the outstretched hand.

Laughter broke the trance. Braying and wheezing loudly, the shaman Malagor raised his staff high in the air. Subtle magic dispelled a subtle spell of compulsion. Then, still laughing, Malagor turned to the daemon, a mocking sneer on his lips.

"I know who you are. You are Be'lakor the fallen. You are weak, a reject! Gods HATE Be'lakor. Be'lakor is friendless!"

Behind Malagor his bestigor followers and shamen erupted in sycophantic laughter, the act of such mockery serving to lessen the daemonic auras that had held their hearts so captive.

Khazrak felt an outpouring of hate again as the intruder made an imperious gesture at the traitorous bestigors. Laughter turned to screams. Nearby ungors and gors, even Malagor's fellow shamen, leapt back in fright as flesh and steel began to run off the afflicted bestigors like melted wax on a candle. For long moments they screamed in terrific agony as some gors mustered their weapons and others cowered in fear. Then, mercifully, it was over as puddles of gore smoldered silently on the forest floor. The Daemon turned to Malagor, his face smug.

"And now, so are you. But I have no more time to spare on your insecure prattling. Braylord," The daemon turned once more to Khazrak, the latter still somewhat unfocused. "I have offered salvation. Together, you and I can undermine the great shield of the Empire and leave its soft underbelly vulnerable for the blade to come- your blade, Khazrak. The fate of the Empire is tied to Middenheim and with its fall the rest of the decrepit kingdom will follow. "

Khazrak shook his head, still woozy but fighting the compulsion to agree minute by minute. Malagor, meanwhile, had channeled the winds of magic to himself, poised to attack if necessary but unwilling to make the first move. "No. Man strong-fort still too powerful. Walls too thick, too many cannons. Herd would be slaughtered before the gate is taken. Unless you brought an army, I will not do it!"

The Daemon responded instantly, his tone sounding, to Khazrak's ears, reasonable. A part of the braylord felt an unfamiliar emotion-shame- for even thinking to question the daemon.

"You are correct of course. Which is why your brayherd need not assault the man city, only hold their attention. I - and those that accompany me- shall do the rest. There is an artifact below the city, a relic from before even my time. A relic that could slay a god and snuff out the everburning fire that had kept the city safe for millennia. The fire at the city's heart is tied forever with the city's fate- should one fall the other will soon follow.

I need not your army, only a tiny portion of your most silent beasts, for I know the tunnels below the city well. Once, I lead armies to near victory in that domain, foiled only by treachery from afar. Times have changed. Ulric is a shadow now, his power a fragment of what it once was. However further distraction is needed, to ensure the count of Middenheim does not ruin schemes by chance as man is penchant to do. Occupy the attention of One Eyed Count outside the walls, for his eye is destined to remain fixed upon yours until your destruction. I –and my servants- shall achieve the rest. "

Khazrak considered as best as his hazy mind could. Such a deal would seemingly cost him little, as all that the daemon required was a herd of ungor raiders- near worthless, in the braylords eyes. Moreover, all Khazrak would have to do is harass the count outside his walls. Something which the Beastlord had done to Boris many times before and, just as in the past, if the count sallied forth, the brayherd could simply retreat into the forest. Something which Khazrak had also done before. The count had learned through painful experience not to follow the brayherd into the forest.

The more cunning part of Khazrak noted that the daemon's presence had only, so far, aided him. Malagor had been made into a fool in front of much of the brayherd and many of the traitorous followers that the shaman had won over to his cause were slain. His rival's power was diminished now.

And yet….

Daemons were inherently untrustworthy creatures. Indeed, the 'word of a daemon' had long been used to refer to a treacherous promise. Doubtless, the creature had a hidden scheme to cheat the braylord out of the prize. There would have to be a pact, bound by magic and oaths to the gods.

"Shaman, bind him with oath!" Khazrak commanded. Malagor snarled but, as he glanced around, he could tell that the Beastlord now had the definitive edge in support. Reluctantly, the Crowfather obeyed. Satisfied, Khazrak turned to the daemon. "If you wish to do as you say, you should have no problem with oath! Promise Daemon! Promise to the gods no betrayal! Promise no abandonment of the herd I send before to the tunnels below is quenched! Make an oath!"

Be'lakor stared blankly at the braylord and then shifted his view over the shaman. Slowly, a smile crossed his lips.

"Of course, mortal. Be'lakor shall make the oath…"

* * *

 _Oafs. Ne'er-do-wells . A failed race. Even in the ancient days, the same bygone past they exalt, Beasts had never been anything more than the crudest of tools. Useful bludgeons at best. Not suited for situations where more subtle means are required. They are the axe knocking on the door, where I need a lockpick. They are the roar in the alleyway, the boast of bloody death, where I need a blade of the dark. Fortunately, I have other tools for more silent needs….._

 _In a manner we are alike, the Beastlord and I. Primitive. Powerful. Pure of dark purpose. Yet in others, we are not. He is crude, one-dimensional, unimaginative. He hones the tired old tactics of his ancestors with new cunning. I learn from my foes and subvert their means of war to my own. His actions have little far-ranging consequences save that a few more insignificant souls are cosigned to darkness. My every action- failure or success, minute or significant- echoes throughout the ages._

 _Arrogant mortal. The Dark Master will not be corralled by oaths, especially not half-conceived proclamations such as these. A hound of Nurgle could find holes in pathetic promises such as these! Still, I did not lie. I shall not abandon what is sent along. Indeed, I shall need them, before the end._

 _AN:_ And that's a wrap for my first short story! The stories contained within this fanfic will be written in the third person limited style and will attempt to fill in more detail for events that occur in Chronicles of Convergence or even edescribe new events entirely.

The first few stories will compose of the prologue- so Warcraft or Warhammer centric, to set up future story will be Warcraft centric.


	2. Echo of the Past

" _How should you measure a man? Let me tell you how. Shower him comfort and contentment, then challenge him with hardship and adversity. Have him build up his ideals and beliefs forged on this fiery crucible. Then, offer the comfort and normality back, but do so in a manner that would require the sacrifice of his newly acquired virtues. Unfortunately, most of us would accept that bargain, but those who don't can be counted among the noblest figures in all of Azeroth….or Insane, one of the two. " –Gundivard the Vast, formally Gundivard the Lighthammer._

* * *

As Khadgar looked upon the smoldering corpse of Archimonde, he had difficulty processing the absurdity of all the armies of Azeroth had accomplished. This was _ **Archimonde**_ , one of the most powerful foes in existence! Archimonde the Defilier, he who had set aflame a thousand worlds and came close to immolating Azeroth itself twice, beaten in the very source of his power, with his shell-shocked slayers still standing over him in a sort of pseudo-paralysis.

Behind the archmage the large, muscular orc warriors of Draenor, many of which had been, until recently, his enemies, cheered loudly. Led by Grommash Hellscream they celebrated the fall of the daemons and the freedom of the very planet they had once sought to enslave. Meanwhile Durotan, he who had truly fought to keep the world free, stood in silence, his brooding mind assessing the implications of the victory. The lord of the Frostwolves did not speak during the celebration, only smiled when his orcs of his own pack caught his eye. Ultimately, his eyes ended up resting on Hellscream warily.

Khadgar, meanwhile, eyed the staff of Gul'dan as it shimmered and then suddenly vanished in a burst of helfire. The mage recognized the spell or, at least, a variant of it.

A summoning spell. Wherever Archimonde had banished Gul'dan to, one thing was clear.

The Warlock was not dead.

Soft steps approached. A voice as soft as silk spoke

"You don't think it's over?"

The mage had learned to place a great deal of trust into his own intuition in the years past. This conflict wasn't over, merely its prologue.

It could never be over until Archimonde's compatriot, Kil'Jaden, and the master of the Legion, Sargeras, were destroyed. The Legion had to be annihilated, utterly, for it sought nothing less than the same fate for all of creation. And, though Khadgar had never shared this little tidbit of information, he knew that the daemons were already perilously close to succeeding in their goal. Azeroth and Draenor were two of the last planets left in all the cosmoses.

Grimly, Khadgar turned to Yrel, his comrade in arms over these past months. A Draenei warrior-maiden who stood taller than the archmage on light-trimmed hooves, clad in the ornate glowing armor of her position, wielding a hammer Khadger doubted he could even pick up, much less wield effectively. Yrel was one of the true heroes of this world, the light that had led her people through the dark aftermath of the prophet's sacrifice.

He wished beyond measure that he could give her a lie, to tell her that the threat had passed for her people. Yet he wouldn't. Better to be told a grim truth than a happy falsehood.

"Gul'dan, and the devils that command him, are not so easily banished. I fear this is only beginning."

Before Khadgar had even finished speaking Yrel's demeanor shifted rapidly. Silk turned to steel. The delicate creature that she once was crystalized into the battle maiden she had become. When she next spoke, it was with the confidence and commitment of a seasoned veteran.

"If you ever need us, we will be here."

Khadgar chuckled lightly to himself; Yrel had come a long way from the novice priestess who she had once been. In a period of months a low novice had risen to the position of general and then exarch. Like the champions of Azeroth, her power had grown spectacularly fast.

"Until we meet again."

Khadgar muttered an incarnation silently and in a flash his human form re materialized into that of a raven - a trick his old mentor had once taught him. With the slightest inclination of his head to the exarch, the archmage left his erstwhile allies.

Arcing and flapping its wings, the raven soared hundreds of feet in the air, the air resistance only serving to exhilarate the keen mind within. On and on it went. Then, at an altitude exactly 1,246 meters above ground level, it paused. A perfect altitude, the archmage who always had a fascination with oddly specific numbers thought. Then he glanced down.

The raven's keen eyesight allowed it to observe the battlefield below with optics his human form could never achieve. He took it all in.

He started with the outside, glancing first at the Iron Horde Warcamp that had surrounded the citadel. Once bursting with activity and industry, it had been turned into a charnel ground by the coming of the Azerothians. Orc bodies, grey, brown and sickly green all, were indiscriminately stacked in great mounds that in some places rose higher than the Draenei's Elekk mounts. Some, the officers clearly, had been stripped of their valuables and lay bare beneath the hot Draenor sun. Here the now fel-corrupted Iron Horde had been ordered by their daemonic commanders to rebuff the impending Assault of Hellfire Citadel. Over ten thousand mighty orcs, clad in iron armor and gifted with mutative fel-flesh, had sought to overwhelm elite champions who they outnumbered many times over. They never stood a chance.

His gaze moved on, this time to the opening gate of the citadel. It was here the Iron Horde had brought its greatest weapons to bear as the forces of Azeroth attacked in the midst of night. For roughly an hour, the world for miles around was set a fel-green light as the Iron Horde deployed every war machine and mechanical weapon they had to destroy the invaders. Rifles, explosive grenades, crushers, flamethrowers, explosive cannons so large that they could destroy a town hall in a single blow, even the several story reaper monstrosity which could devastate a fortified base by its lonesome. All had been laid waste and what was once a courtyard now resembled a scrapyard of broken metal and flesh, a few clothed in red and blue talbards. Though Azeroth had won, it had not done so unscathed.

While much of fighting that followed took place indoors, and thus out of the Archmage's sight, glimpses of carnage could be seen. Here, at the bottom of the citadel, lay the colossal corpse of Kormrok, a creature of an elemental, bygone era whose rule had reshaped the mountains of Gorgrond into what it is today. In turn, the champions of Azeroth had reshaped the corrupted behemoth into a number of broken boulders and splintered stalactites, all of which bled sickly green. There, in the spires of the citadel, lay the avian corpses of Iskar's traitorous Arakkoa. Blood, feathers, strange metal ornaments and gore carpeted the floor like a children's slumber party gone horribly wrong.

And, of course, at the height of the fortress lay the enormous corpses of Mannaroth and Archimonde. Khadgar could scarcely believe it, could scarcely believe the scale of his success.

Originally, the venerable archmage had assumed his trip to Draenor would be a suicide mission. Just as the expedition to what would become Outland had nearly been.

Worse, in this case, for the Horde he had fought on the fel-tainted hills of Hellfire Peninsula had been a shadow of their former potential, weakened by years of war and infighting. The Iron Horde meanwhile was not only at its prime but equipped with the finest (and most explosive) Goblin technology. Yet not only did the Alliance-Horde expedition (along with some valued allies) succeed but they did so while possessing far less than the original Outland expedition had and while fighting among-st themselves (something that had caused Khadgar no few headaches the last couple of months).

Not for the first time did Khadgar marvel at how powerful Azeroth had become in the mere twenty years since he had left it to take part in Turalyon's doomed expedition. In that time Azeroth had endured so many wars, skirmishes, plagues and cataclysms that the mortals of his homeworld should have been utterly depleted in military capacity, not capable of maintaining garrisons across worlds and continents!

The war against the Iron Horde should have defined a generation yet, within a few months, the Horde of the Hellscreams was beaten and broken underneath otherworldly boot heels. Only the sudden arrival of the Burning Legion had delayed the conclusion of the war...by about two new months.

The raven soared once around the citadel, observing, once more, scenes of carnage and triumph. Then the great bird flew on, crossing lakes of fel fire, trains of wrecked war machines and large gatherings of celebrating soldiers- outlander and native both. Khadgar knew that reconstruction would take years if not longer, for despite the best efforts of the druids of Cenarius the Night Elves still had not properly cleansed the aptly named Felwood of the daemonic taint it acquired from the Third War.

If he could have, Khadgar would have stayed to help his allies rebuild their home. Indeed, a fair portion of the devastation had no doubt been caused by the forces of Azeroth during their short but brutal war. There was also the uncomfortable fact that the war's chief architect, the late, unlamented Garrosh Hellscream, had come from Azeroth. True, if Garrosh had not come Gul'dan would have been able to carry out his subversion of the entire orcish race, but that did not take away the responsibility to atone.

However, he could not. Nor could the champions of Azeroth. Their planet needed them back home, and though the expeditionary force had been but a small portion of Azeroth's might, it was now a veteran force that would be needed to serve as a vanguard for the war to come. Any aid for this world would have to wait.

The raven flew on, veering southwest. There was one more gift this world had to provide.

* * *

Days later….

" _Before we invented civilization our ancestors lived mainly in the open out under the sky. Even today the most jaded city dweller can be unexpectedly moved upon encountering a clear night sky studded with thousands of twinkling stars. When it happens to me after all these years it still takes my breath away."_

Decades separated Khadgar from the classroom of the late Archmage Sagen. In that time he had crossed the cosmos, fighting uncountable battles and slaying innumerable monsters. He had developed a lifetime of memories and suffered no few head injuries too. And yet, through all of it that quote had remained with him.

As he gazed skywards towards the cosmos Khadgar felt a strange new sensation. One which, in the archmage's tumultuous life, he could not recall having ever felt before. A feeling that he had never been able to describe, until now. Months of weariness, of frenzied activity, of desperation, excitement and suppressed guilt faded away, at least momentarily, as he beheld the vision of creation, the gentle breeze of the rolling Nagrand hills at his neck. Was this what stability and contentment felt like?

Peace. The Archmage never had that. Not once, not ever, in his long life. A child reject, cast off by superstitious parents who hated his magical potential, Khadgar had spent his early years competing tirelessly to outdo his fellow classmates in the eyes of the Archmages. These occasions were punctuated by points of punishments where he did indeed acquire the attention of the mighty and powerful through Khadgar's constant attempts to spy on their meetings.

 _Curiosity and boldness, what some would say a lack of good sense, were always my traits_ , he thought wryly to himself.

Eventually, he acquired the attentions of Medvith, the legendary guardian-recluse. From there his destiny had been sealed. What followed had been two decades of intrigue, war, devastation, survival, training and planning. Armies had been raised and lost, kingdoms burned and worlds shattered. Khadgar had been at the forefront of much of it, and for those grand events he had missed, like the Third War, the archmage had been trapped on a dead, demon infested world rife with peril.

Khadgar never knew the pride of a parent, the stability of a permanent home or the caress of a lover. That had never been his path and, he expected, never would. Yet there was a part of his psyche that had always longed for those things. The psychological embodiment of the weariness and desire for stability he tried so hard to suppress in front of others. The part of him that wanted so desperately that impossible word- peace. The part of him that wanted to settle down, build his own private mage tower, find a lover and, most of all, to forget. To forget about the Legion, Lothar, his lost friends Turalyon and Alleria, Dalaran, the Kirin Tor, Gul'dan, Medvith, the lingering guilt he felt over Cor-

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Such selfish impulses must never be acted upon, for the archmage knew without a sense of false importance that the fate of Azeroth itself was in his hands. Though he never had- and never would- take up the title, he was the closest thing that Azeroth had to a Guardian, the last of that storied line which had protected Azeroth from daemonic incursion for millennia. Certainly he had been tested far more than any Guardian in the past, even Aegwynn, and Khadgar knew he would be tested further still in the future. The Guardian's duty was to make sure that Azeroth did not fall and he would do whatever it took, so long as his deeds did not jeopardize Azeroth itself, to carry out that task.

It was a sad truth that peace was elusive, non-existent. Even here, in gentle Nagrand, the void in front of him only served to distract from what could be observed by merely angling his head 45 degrees in any direction. Breathing deep, allowing himself one final moment of selfish relaxation, Khadgar did just that.

Candles, lit by Khadgar when he had first arrived, illuminated buildings of hide and stone, carved out ruins immolated long ago by a fire produced from no natural source. Skulls and bones, half-buried in the dirt, still lay where they had fallen so long ago. No scavenger had come to claim them, no raider had come to bury them, for this place was as remote and cursed as they come. It had taken Khadgar much research into the magic of chronomancy- with the help of the Bronze Dragonflight- to learn of this forsaken village.

The Village of Gul'dan. Capital of a forgotten tribe. Khadgar still did not know the full details of what happened but pieces fell together. It did not take a scholar to guess that the orc warlock was responsible for whatever cataclysm befell this village.

A poor choice, initially, to look for answers for the future. Yet Khadgar knew that sometimes to gaze into the future, you had to delve into the forgotten past.

Souls left imprints on those places that had true meaning to them, whether for good or ill. Tiny, normally unnoticeable echoes that normally could not be detected except in kind. Khadgar was certain his own echoes still existed in Karazhan and Dalaran. Though every scrap of research indicated Gul'dan hated this place, even hatred has meaning and in that hatred there was hope for Khadgar.

For those soul echoes maintained faint links to the person left behind. And even if he couldn't properly track them that didn't mean they couldn't. It was the Witching Hour now, and his hosts approached. Even now the ritual candles he had set up around the camp flickered and waved even as the wind stilled.

The ritual he had conducted was an ancient one. Forbidden, too. Borderline necromancy, his instructors would have said, and Khadgar knew that if the Council of Six was aware of what he was doing right now, he would be at the very least condemned, possibly expelled or even imprisoned. They would have cried for priests to exercise the influence of the Lich King from his soul.

Khadgar scoffed to himself. The Council of Six lacked his pragmatic tendencies and could be too close-minded at times. They took the wrong lesson from Kel'Thuzad's defection. Though they would doubtless level such charges at him, Khadgar was _not_ indulging in necromancy. The tribal societies of the Tauren and Orcs had consulted their fallen ancestors for millennia and no serious scholar considered either to be necromancers (for the most part). Khadgar was here to consult the dead, not command them.

That Kel'Thuzad himself may have once made that same distinction, early in his career, never crossed his mind.

Carefully, Khadgar picked himself up and walked over to where the tribal camp fire once had been. Delicately, he laid out his tribute to the tribe- clefthoof cutlets, Iron Horde wargear and the pelts of Talbuks. That the dead had no use for such things did not matter, for it was the formality, the tradition, that mattered. Good guests brought gifts to their hosts, out of respect and appreciation for the favor they were to ask.

With the delicateness that one might lay wreathes on a grave, the Archmage positioned his diverse gifts by each of the many candles, aligning them neatly in an ancient pattern. The Orcs had communicated with their ancestors for generations and Khadgar had learned from the blind seer Drek'Thar, who was willing to share some of his traditions in return for lore regarding Azeroth. Khadgar had made sure to emphasize it was for academic purposes only. The Frostwolf shaman might have been more reluctant to speak if he thought the archmage would put his teachings into practice.

His eyes saw nothing but brief, almost undetectable flickers of light. However, in his mind's eye, the mental vision brought about by the numerous detection spells he had cast upon himself, he imagined ranks of curious fel-mutilated orcs gathering around the fire. Infuriated that he had disturbed their rest, distrustful yet curious as to why a race they had never seen before had sought to speak with them. There was appreciation at the mage's gesture and the honoring of the Old Ways. They were ready to listen.

The mage raised his staff to illuminate his face and then cast the _Rossestu_ s spell, which would translate words across languages.

"Hear me, friends. My name is Khadgar and, as you can tell, I am not of this world" Khadgar begun with a nervous chuckle "Nor am I used to audiences that are, as one would say, 'as silent as the grave'".

Stillness was with his response, though the mage could swear he could detect the slightest hints of indignation and disapproval.

 _Right, not a crowd for puns._ _Orcs respect strength and prowess, not puns_

The mage continued

"Though I may not look the part, I am a fighter. I have spent my entire life journeying throughout the Twisting Nether battling the vile monsters and daemons who would see all of creation burned to ash. I have witnessed both atrocities I don't want to describe and heroism that I would see inscribed for the ages. Yet, I cannot help but feel the greatest challenge is before me. "

Khadgar nervously began to pace, his introduction finished. Now came for the lure.

"And that challenge's name is Gul'dan."

The effect was immediate as the stillness was broken. Though his physical sight still saw nothing, in his mind's eye he could sense a cursing, restless name that manifested into a low, unearthly growl on the wind. Yes, Gul'dan was a hated name here.

It was a commonality they shared with Azeroth.

Gul'Dan was hated across the Alliance and the Horde. The Alliance remembered that it was Gul'dan who opened the Dark Portal and manipulated the orcs into charging through it, ushering in an age of conflict. The Draenei in particular had reason to hate the orc warlock, for it was his machinations that resulted in the near genocide of their people, a fate that had luckily been averted in this world. The Horde, meanwhile, hated the warlock for tricking the orcs into making a pact with the Burning Legion. Some Orc veterans, too, bitter and despising the Alliance, remembered how Gul'Dan had abandoned the Horde at a fateful hour where their victory could have been achieved.

Ultimately the Gul'dan of his universe was fel not to the holy might of the Alliance or the primal fury of the Horde but to the twisted claws of the Burning Legion. It was a fate well deserved.

"In my entire life, I have never known a foe as vile as that warlock. For the past year I have battled across this world, destroying would-be conquerors and defilers both, yet Gul'dan has outdone them all. I have seen innocents sacrificed to monsters greater than he, turn a whole province into a sludge pile and even…" Khadgar paused here, the lingering pain leaving his voice raw "turned friends and heroes against their comrades. For months, I have sought to bring the warlock down. However, always he has stayed one step ahead thanks to the powers of his dark masters. Now, he has been taken off world for some unknown purpose." His pacing stopped, now came the request "And you all are the only ones who can help me."

Not strictly true, of course. There were several groups, such as the Council of the Black Harvest or the Bronze Dragonflight, which would be willing to help. However that help came with either significant strings attached or would take a small age to acquire. He would pursue this lead before he considered others. Delays could be fatal.

He held up his staff higher and gestured to it.

"We leave imprints- the tiniest fragments of our souls- on people and objects that hold profound meaning to us. That is how I can track him. If any of you know of an object that held such significance to Gul'dan, please speak now. The fate of two worlds, perhaps more, rests on your answer."

For long moments, the world was utterly silent. There was no gentle howl of the wind, no chirping insects. Khadgar began to fear he had offended the tribe. Then, first in his mind's eye, and then in his physical vision, a single, elderly orc clothed in humble robes hobbled forward. As Khadgar gazed into the orc's face he was struck by how kind it looked, marred only by eyes that showed incomprehensible sadness. The orc continued to walk towards Khadgar and then through him, surprising the archmage who nearly cried out at the sudden freezing sensation. The elder continued on until it reached an unremarkable spot of dirt. Reaching down, he pulled a strange, aged feather from the earth before depositing it into Khadgar's hands.

Khadgar looked down and then back at the orc in uncomprehending confusion. The Orc gave him a sad smile before raising a hand to the mage's forehead. When they touched, Khadgar's vision exploded in a burst of green light.

* * *

 _The force of the explosion knocked him to the ground, grasping for breath. His body, already aged beyond the lifespan of most of his people, felt utterly decrepit, as if he had aged a hundred years more. He was on his knees now, barely held up by his feathered staff, as howls of pain and rage deafened his ears. Crawling, frantically, to get away from the unholy horror that had consumed the chieftain right before his very eyes. All around him, his people were being slaughtered, immolated by the horrific green fire that moved as if on its own accord, chasing down survivors no matter where they hid or fled. A few bravely attempted to slay the one responsible for this evil. They fell to their knees in moments; their forms aged a century in an instant. To the shaman's eyes it seemed like their very life essence had been seized and drained dry._

 _In desperation he reached out to the elements, begging them to hear his prayers and grant the power to stop this slaughter. He was met only with agonized wails in four different tones, as the outcast's evil magic- as Gul'dan's evil magic- wounded nature even deeper than it did orc._

 _The terror that had been beating in his heart grew to an unstoppable crescendo. Never, in his long lifespan, had he ever met a foe that could render even the elements themselves impotent. His bones shook with unquenchable fear. He tried to pull himself up but found that his legs would not respond; the incessant quivering would not cease._

 _Then, out of the terror, a calming hand placed itself on his shoulder._

" _ **Thank you."**_ _The words, spoken with breathtaking sincerity, shattered terror's hold on the shaman. He turned to regard its speaker. Gul'dan. The crippled outcast who, since his very birth, had been subject to constant mockery and abuse from a clan that only ever admired strength. Gul'dan had come to repay that hate in full. Yet, at this moment, the hate and bitterness was gone, shorn from his face. In its place was, surprisingly, honest gratitude._

 _Long had the shamen tried to help the figure before him. He had spent countless moons trying, patiently, to teach the young boy the ways of the elements. But even in that young age, Gul'dan was consumed by bitterness. He lacked the patience to commune with the elements. He demanded their power when he should have asked. Each failure drove the boy deeper into a spiral of bitterness and hatred._

 _Had Gul'dan failed the clan, or did the clan fail Gul'Dan?_

 _The boy- no, the orc's hand gripped the elder's shoulder tighter- and hotter. The shaman recognized the significant of the moment for it had played out once before, though in reverse. Just as the elder had once stood over a bitter, crippled boy, urging him to seek out his destiny, now the former cripple stood over his elder, triumphant, powerful, and confident. His destiny found, albeit more malefic and cruel than the shaman could have ever imagined. Gul'dan remembered the words the shaman had spoken so long ago, and threw them back at him._

" _ **I have found my destiny."**_

 _The hand grew hot, green and for a few terrible moments the shaman knew agony beyond what he had ever felt before. And then there was nothing._

* * *

Khadgar shook his head, his mind and heart racing with the intensity of the vision. The Shaman loomed over him, his eyes closed. He looked at peace even as Khadgar struggled to process the revelations.

Gul'dan an outcast? Well it certainly fit, as the warlock had never showed an ounce of loyalty to anyone to the mage's knowledge. Khadgar had lost count of how many Shadow Council minions Gul'dan blindly threw away in order to protect his own hide. But why would the shaman show him this vision? What purpose could it have?

Picking himself up, he reached down to grasp Atiesh.

Then it hit him. Perhaps the narrative of the vision was not important, but the details. Notably

"The staff. It wasn't Gul'dan's, it was yours! He took as his own, as a last memento to the village of his birth. I-I think I understand now. This" he held up the feather excitably, examining it over "was once part of that staff. The feather's a physical echo of the noble instrument the staff once was. That is how I can trace him! Thank you, shaman, thank you-"

The mage turned to empty space. The shaman was not there, nor was his people. Neither physical nor magical sight could pick them up. They were gone with nothing but a sudden, gentle breeze to mark their passing.

Silently, Khadgar bowed to the camp fire before waving out the remaining candles. For a moment he allowed himself to sniff the fragrant incense, appreciating the feelings of peace.

Then, with a gesture and an incantation, the mage began the process of conjuring a portal to his tower in Talador where, after gathering some supplies, he would conjure a second to Dalaran… after a period of rest, of course. Crossing timelines and dimensions was hardly easy and, more so, the Bronze Dragonflight had informed the Archmage that, after the Azerothians were evacuated, they would use their mastery of chronology to seal off the connection between worlds for all save a select few.

The delay- slight, for Khadgar was eager to continue tracking Gul'dan- would give the archmage time to reflect and strategize on what he would say to his peers in Dalaran. Already, he had fielded many …concerns of theirs. Regarding his behavior. Or, more adequately, their perceptions of his behavior.

The Council of Six did not know all the actions that Khadgar had undertaken in the campaign but, what they did know, upset them. He had been accused of obsession, of reckless behavior, of consorting with dark magics.

Khadgar knew they were wrong on all accounts. He had spent countless hours of meetings trying to reason with them, to explain that there was a method to his madness. The risk of corruption, likewise, was a overplayed concern. Khadgar knew better than most the risks of corruption, having witnessed it firsthand in his old master, Medvih. The Archmage trusted his instincts to warn him before he came close to that point.

As for Gul'dan….

The Council did not appreciate the danger like Khadgar did. Lost in the midst of the dozens of threats Azeroth had collectively faced since, the council had forgotten the terrible potential of Gul'dan.

The Oher Gul'dan hadn't been the most formidable foe Azeroth ever faced, not the most powerful or the most cunning, but he had been the most consequential. Fishermen folk tales had claimed that if you dropped a pebble in the middle of the ocean it would ripple and grow into an enormous tsunami by the time it reached the shore. That story wasn't exactly true, but the overall lesson applied completely to Gul'dan. He was the pebble's ripple that created the wave, the wings of the butterfly, the living echo whose call resounded his across history. He was the catalyst for terrible deeds.

Without Gul'dan, there would be no Horde invasion of Azeroth, no Lich King created from a tortured Ner'Zhul, no bitter war across the icy north of Northrend to put the Scourge down. Stormwind wouldn't have been burned, Quel'thalas wouldn't have been defiled, Dalaran wouldn't have been raised. and neither the Alliance nor the Horde would have ever existed. No Draenei genocide and thus no Draenei exodus to Azeroth. The Old Gods, though still existent, likely wouldn't have put such haste in their efforts to corrupt the world. Most importantly, the Legion would have had to find another means to enter Azeroth, delaying them by countless decades.

If the ill-deeds of just one Gul'dan had resulted in all that sorrow, what would the actions and consequences of a second unleash?

AN: Thank you for the comments everyone!


	3. Fur & Ice

_We gaze upwards at man-things with a mixture of envy-jealousy and contempt-hate. We resent their dominion-mastery of the surface and mock-laugh at their inability to see our rule-rule over the basements and sewer-places of their own city-warrens! Yet my brethren are just as blind as them. Just as we gaze hungrily towards the man-things, other pale deep-things gaze upwards at us with the same thoughts." -Wellacraft, disgraced Warplock Engineer_

Capering and howling, the beastkin of the forests taunted hatefully the softskins who stood, protected, behind walls of stone and artillery placements. Lacking any moral inhibition, the beastkind used the most lewd and debased gestured imaginable as their blood boiled at both the cowardice of the huddling humans and ( though none would say it aloud) their own impotence when it came to assaulting fortifications.

Two thousand feet below a dark prince led his fawning followers through ancient corridors that predated the race of man, forged from alloys of a realm beyond their world. The daemon moved through the prehistorical halls with the confidence of the one who had once led armies through them. However his followers tip-toed and staggered, overawed by the timeless majesty of the place and struggling to overcome the oppressive atmosphere of the tunnels. The builders were long dead yet, in a way, their echoes lived on. Growling with deep menace, the daemon forced his followers to keep up lest they get left behind- a fatal proposition in these time lost tunnels.

Another two thousand feet below that, the spinning whirl of a digging machine, its warpstone drill glowing brightly in the dark, emerged from the earth. As the machine whirled wholly through the earth from its newfound hole emerged a horde of furry, bipedal, tailed forms, their twitch movements betraying their identity: Lords of the Underdark- the Skaven.. A small procession of them emerged from the pit, their eyes excitably taking in the surroundings before hurriedly moving to turn off the drill machine, their feet leaving faint tracks into the snow. They were followed by the leader of this expedition, Lord Sneekblade, a master-assassin of Clan Eshin.

The Drill machines were not Sneekblade's preferred means of arrival, of course, for the Clan Skyre contraptions made far too much noise for one accustomed to silence. Still, the …unique nature of this mission and its benefactor made conventional infiltration this far down impossible, especially given the short nature of the request. A necessary sacrifice to stealth was required.

That said, he was ready to sacrifice some mission integrity for noise but…not this much. The whirl of the Skaven Skyre digging machine was as noisy as a hundred ringing gongs on a eastern stupa. Oh Clan Skyre had claimed that such a machine was the most silent of its kind, a 'marveling marvel' that could dig through earth as stealthily as a gutter runner of Eshin could move across grass. Well worth the extra thousand warpstone tokens, they had said.

Oh how he, Lord Sneekblade, looked forward to post-ops, where he would take great pleasure in removing the lying tongues from those engineer's snouts. As proof of the deed of course, for no true professional would have left the warlock engineers alive longer than needed. Sneekblade suspected that the poisons he had laden their chairs with had run their course quite painfully through their wracked forms. Still, if Sneekblade knew then what he knew now, he would have made the poison more painful.

"No one else must know about this mission," high command had said, "no one outside of Clan-Eshin." Sneekblade had obeyed readily, for he felt only contempt for those outside his clan. They were slow, uncoordinated, disciplined tools to be used when needed and then to be discarded after. Such had been the fate of many Moulder and Skyre superiors already, and such would be the fate of the master mutators and warplock engineers that had accompanied the Eshin clawpacks after this mission.

Sneekblade looked around, his keen eyes taking in the terrain with surprise, widening momentarily to the point of nearly bulging before training, brutally instilled from years in the sept-lairs of the far east, kicked in. A showing of such weakness in front of other Skaven could quickly prove to be a fatal mistake. Instead, he forced his eyes to narrow as he analyzed the town sized cavern before him.

Desolate, dark, foreboding, impossibly covered by snow, the cavern was adjourned with glistening stalactites on the roof and stone formations that, though barely discernible, seemed to show lupin forms. Others, murals on the walls, painted a story that seemed even Sneekblade's night vision had difficulty discerning as they seemed to have faded with age. But some figures were clear and the skaven could pick out humans bent in worship towards a figure that seemed neither man nor wolf, but something in between. Other images dotted the walls such as a breed of man-thing that looked like a cross between a modern human and a dwarf along with an image of a meeting with what could only be the frog-things of the South. An interesting bit of lore, for the cold-things very rarely left their jungle domain of Lustria.

His eyes scoped around, taking in more rock formations with no discernible entrances. Curious, but Sneekblade's analytical mind acknowledged the possibility of such a door collapsing with time. Or, perhaps, being sealed in from the outside?

Impossibly, the winds howled, blowing snow into the Skaven's face. And it was impossible, for they were well over a kilometer from the surface. Sneekblade didn't need the aethyr to see that this place was tinged with magic.

And, at the very middle of the cavern, hovered a floating orb. The size of a rat ogre, this orb hovered, gently in the breeze, moving up and down as if it were in an ocean current. This, the only discernible object of note in the room, was clearly the target. Had there ever been a more obvious objective? Had there ever been a more obvious prize?

Had there ever been a more obvious trap?

Around him, the ground began to shift as the other clawpacks tore through it. Some were dug through by the same bores that had brought Sneekblade to this place, while others were dug through by the massive grasping claws of Clan Moulder Burrowing Behemoths, which looked sort of like moles- if the moles were giant, foaming at the mouth, and 'improved' by the seemingly random grafting of assorted racial limbs to its body.

Sneekblade shook his head at the madness of the other clans. Honestly, what possible purpose could the grafting of four dozen human legs to the mole-thing's main legs serve? It already dug well enough.

As the other clawpacks began to arrive, Sneekblade reflected on the nature of this mission.

To the unsophisticated eye, the contract had _seemed_ simple enough. The Eshin clawpacks- a lucky 13 in number- were to dig deep underneath the man-thing city, to a cavern that had long been hidden from the ratmen. There they were to steal an artifact of magical importance and bring it back to their buyer. That the crude, unsubtle man-things had managed to hide something underground from the Skaven, lords of the subterranean, was incredulous enough, however the buyer was more spectacular still.

It was a man, tall and clothed in black, yet with an air of majesty that even his superiors had readily acknowledged. Indeed, the eshin leader thought, they had practically groveled before him, as if this man-stranger were Lord Sneek himself! They had given as much skeptical consideration to the man-thing as a rat ogre would to his next meal.

Of course, they could not see the man for what he truly was. Sneekblade could. In fact, only Sneekblade could, for he was one of the shadowy legends, a whispered legend among the Eshin clans and a point of suspicious denial among the others. He was a sorcerer. For years he had studied in the hidden far eastern dojos of Nippon and Cathay, learning cantrips and incantations of shadow from grizzled old grandmasters and broken man-thing wizard-savants. Sneekblade could recognize the taint of magic when he saw it and the man-thing who hired Eshin reeked of it to such a degree that the Eshin assassin highly doubted he was a man….

Sneekblade looked around and counted ten. Ten clawpacks, their leaders properly sycophantic for his favor. Well used to this trademark of Skaven culture, Sneekblade tuned out the words as he reflected on the clawpacks before him. _Not good-adequate_ , the Eshin assassin thought to himself. For all their fawning, Sneekblade knew the subordinate deathrunners would doubtless turn even the slightest circumstance beyond his control into a report of utmost failure when it came time to report to their superiors.

"Warplock-engineer" Sneekblade said suddenly, practically shouting over the grinding machine as Clan Skyre assistants struggled to turn them off "Get your squeaking-device running. Find-find clawpacks five, nine and thirteen! "

The Warplock Engineer, a greying old rat named Skizzlekob who seemed to be slowly growing blind, bowed and turned out a reply "Yes-Yes great one! Far Squeaker need-need body with good ears though to listen. My servant, Sretch, shall hear-listen for me! "

Srech, who Sneekblade guessed was a underling who suffered from being too obviously ambitious (as many Skaven were) , reluctantly moved to put the Far Squeaker on. The strange device seemed to consist of a series of wires, emanating from a large box-machine, that was attached to a strange round device that the Warplock Engineer called a "Squeaker". Apparently, it played reflections of sounds- audio- from afar.

Amusingly, during their brief time together Sneekblade had noticed that the techno-rat Skizzlekob, though boastful of his clan and his own inventions, didn't seem to like to use his own non-weapon inventions, instead delegating that task to his servants. Perhaps this was why the engineer had managed to live to become old and grey?

Cranking the engine, the machine whirled to life, glowing faintly green as Skizzlekob maneuvered the dials to acquire another frequency. As Skyre was doing so, Sneekblade ordered his Deathrunners to take assessment of the surrounding land but to not approach the floating orb just yet.

After many cranks the engineer finally attuned the device to a working frequency. Hesitantly, Srech asked inquiries over the device only to be met with, what appeared to be, silence. More forcefully this time, Srech repeated himself. Almost reluctantly, another voice answered him on the squeaker. All Sneekblade, with his attuned hearing, could make out were hesitant squeaks, almost as if the speaker was reluctant to avoid being overheard. Sretch, however, had no such desire, likely eager to enrage his master at someone else. Instead he loudly repeated the gist

"Delayed, you say-say? Moulder pack-beasts went mad, you say-say? Acknowledged, clawpack nine! What are your orders, oh master of death?" Srech looked at Sneekblade as he spoke.

Sneekblade's inclination was to sentence the clawpack to execution for failing his orders. However, prudence- and the fact that they were likely miles away- stayed his hand.  
"How far off are they? Can they scurry-hurry here?"

Srech turned his focus back to the device, relaying the Eshin Leader's orders. Moments later, chittering returned through the audio. Sneekblade picked up enough of it to get the gist; they had no means to travel to meet the Skaven at their intended destination.

Sneekblade made a mental note to conduct the executions personally when he returned. Straining to control his anger, he ordered Srech to locate clawpack five.

Skizzlekob chortled, his metal mask distorting it into an odd echo.

"Moulder-meat screw up everything! Not efficient-good like mighty-mighty Skyre-and Eshin, of course!" The Warplock added hastily, looking fearfully at Sneakblade.

The Master Moulder Retchet who joined this expedition rose, angrily, from his throne, situated on the backs of four straining skavenslaves. And they _were_ straining, for the Master Moulder had to be the fattest rat Sneekblade had ever seen. In fact Sneekblade wasn't entirely sure whether he was looking at a skaven or a smarter than average rat ogre. Whereas the feet of most Skaven did not sink into the snow, for it was more than compact enough to hold their weight, Moulder's did…about two feet, momentarily unsettling the fat Skaven. Then, even more furiously, the Skaven righted himself and then directed the anger at Skizzlekob.

"Mighty Moulder most-most efficient, smartest, strongest of all clans- rivaled only by Eshin of course!" Once again, another Skaven made that admission, though this time the Master Moulder was a little less subtle about it, his eyes flickering, momentarily, to the warpblade strapped to Sneekblade's thigh. "No, Skyre-meat ruin plans! Skyre-meat crazy machine s drives our perfect creations mad-mad. "

"Or maybe it's because you-you don't feed beasts? Don't train them well-well! Dumb beasts get hungry and eat –devour Skaven flesh instead of enemy!"

"Lunacy! Moulder beasts perfectly trained! Moulder beasts trained to eat-eat food from our claws-without eating the claws! Though sometimes we-we don't have enough food to go around…" Retchet conceded the last point but then added "Only because Skyre outbid our slave stocks-meat!" At this, the Master Moulder turned around suddenly, the word 'slave' seeming to trigger a newfound desire among the …creature? Sneekblade was not quite sure Retchet was still a Skaven, his girth was like that of a rat ogre.

Skizzlekob seized upon this to get a new jab in.

"You would have-have enough meat if you stopped taking it all for you-you! "

The Master Moulder, who had just begun to slaughter one of his own slaves for personal consumption, turned, newly enraged, to the Warplock Engineer.

"You one to talk-talk! So many slave-meat wasted on useless experiments with metal! How many burnt or blown up for some half-brained tinker-trash device? Why" at this, the expression on Retchet's monstrous face turned sly, as he switched his gaze to Sneekblade " I bet that is why the squeeker cannot hear-talk to Clawpack five! "

"Moulder, you have something to report-say?" Sneekblade spoke in a silent, deadly whisper that let all those know his amusement was running to an end.

"Yes, mighty deathlord, oh master slayer. Your sublime ears, perfect from silent hunts in the darkness, surely heard the large tremors that shook our tunnels? Useless skyre tinker-trash must have exploded! "

Skizzlekob wasn't having that. "No-no. Lord Sneekblade, in his wise eminence, surely knows of my-my clan's quality! Clan Skyre machines perfect; it must have been Moulder who ruin clawpack five!"

This time it was the engineer who was made to look like a fool, as Retchet responded contemptuously "My beasts don't explode, tinker-rat!"

"No-no it was sabotage then! If there was a Skyre explosion " Skizzlekob seemed to grudgingly concede this "it came only about through Moulder sabotage! They are jealous deviants, mighty one, scared of my-my –our-our – " again Skizzlekob hastily added, looking warily at Sneekblade " genius! Without their sabotage our mission would have already been completed-finished-"

"-Lies will get you no-where! Wise Eshin master sees through them." Sneekblade was starting to get annoyed by their constant bickering. Undisciplined, petty, shortsighted. Trademarks of the lesser clans, whether they called themselves powerful or not. That was why, ultimately, only Eshin deserved to rule while the rest of the clans bowed under their enlightened guidance. For what defined the Skaven more than their mastery of the world's shadowy places, and of the Skaven who dominated the shadows more than Clan Eshin?

"Don't flatter me, fool-meat! Silence, both of you! Tinker-rat" he turned to Srech once more " Assume Clawpack five is gone-exploded! Find -find Clawpack 13! Now-Now!"

Practically tripping over themselves with excuses and insincere flattery, the pair finally shut up as Sneekblade reached for his blade. Satisfied, and not willing to slay them just yet, Sneekblade turned his attention to the Deathrunners, who had returned from their hasty scouting of the cave. Specifically, he called out the one named Tracht, his nominal second in command and the one who Sneekblade's superiors were strongly considering promoting to assassin. Naturally, this made him Sneekblade's greatest rival, for ascendancy in Skavendom only ever came to the misfortune of the one above.

"Tracht, report. Any ambush-surprises?"

Nervously, for Sneekblade still had his claws on his blade, the deathrunner spoke a reply in the wispy tones that so all characterized Clan Eshin.

"No-no, my lord! Both cavern and auxiliary caves are clear-open! Only notable thing to be found was odd-weird frozen corpse near a cave at the opposite end! Many corpses in that cave, man-things and dwarf-things among them, but also weird–thing as well!"

"Corpse?" Sneekblade's interest was piqued, slightly, both by the corpse itself and out curiosity for why Tracht was seemingly mentioning such a thing. "What sort of corpse?" Unnoticed, behind them Srech was speaking concernedly to the audio device as Skizzlekob leaned over him. Retchet, now finally unnoticed, had begun to greedily devour the unlucky slave alive, the third such meal in the span of four hours.

Tracht spoke excitedly. "It is split, Lord Sneekblade! Split in half! Lower body-portion four-legged, but top portion man-thing like. Not beast-thing either, for whole body is all scaly!"

Sneekblade knew that that description did not eliminate the possibility of beast-things, for that abominable race was as varied as the Skaven clans. In the east, Sneekblade had seen bodies of things half tusk-thing, half-fox and, more fearfully, half-cat or snake-thing! In his tutelage in the hidden sept-fortress under Weijin-thing place he had learned of more diverse creatures like the croc-things of the Southlands, the shark-things of the Great Ocean and, in the few horrific expeditions the Skaven had undertaken to that terrible continent, the dreaded THINGS (always capitalized in every account) of the Southern Wastes.

Now another answer easily came to mind, though he was not sure Tracht would know it, for the creature in question was only ever seen but rarely, and almost always during a Chaos-thing incursion. The only reason Sneekblade knew of it was that, as a top echelon of Eshin, he was required to read and know the poisons to bring down every known species in the world.

'Shaggoth-thing? " Sneekblade asked. Tracht shook his head.

"No, learned lord! This thing has a head like lizard-things of Lustria!"

That got Sneekblade's attention. There was only one creature he knew that came close to matching the description . It was an ancient creature, a race listed in the ancient annals and one who had not been sighted in several hundred years. Long thought extinct, if Sneekblade brought the corpse back he could claim great prestige for slaying it, and sell the corpse for an immense profit to Moulder too!

What was it called again? Troat? Koat?

Tracht was encouraging his curiosity.

"Go see-see mighty lord! No need to worry about tinker-meat, Tracht will to make sure they obey-follow your orders!"

Ahh, there it was. That was why his subordinate was so eager to tell Sneakblade of his discovery. He wanted the elder Eshin gone! Doubtless he would launch an assault when the assassin left to claim credit, or, if his second d in command was more daring, try to have him assassinated in that corner. Sneekblade sighed audibly. These were the tactics of lesser clans; Eshin had to be cleverer than that!

"No-no, I am needed here lieutenant. Bring the corpse here! Take some slaves and drag it back. "

Tracht appeared nervous, looking shiftily around, but then thoughtfully eyed Retchet, who even now was stuffing his face with a full arm of a now dismembered slave.

"Esteemed one, that can be easily done but I worry about moulder-meat! He might eat it."

Sneekblade's twitched his tail irritably and rolled his eyes

"Don't worry about Retchet I'll-"

Then, Sneekblade's state of mind shattered, his brain registering only instinctive panic as every fur on the back of his neck stood straight up. A hoarse scream- of clear and apparent agony, beyond of anything the Skaven assassin had ever heard- ruptured the air, like a temple's gong on a late night. Only a thousand times worse.

Before him, Tracht recoiled and let loose the musk of fear. Sneekblade's own glands clenched but, using his disciplined upbringing learned from the Eastern enclaves, he managed to reign in his natural instinct and read for the sword. Forgetting, momentarily, about his rival Eshin's position he did a 180* degree turn, immediately pinpointing the cause of the sound.

It was the farsqueeker's squekers, the noise-makers, bursting out at a volume that Sneekblade knew should not have been possible. In front of it Srech stood slumped over the machine, clearly bleeding from his ears as the it bore the full blunt of the mental attack. Then the screams began to meld with another sound- chanting, long and sonorous and, yet, tinged with something else. Something maddening.

Sneekblade pulled his sword out, the magic in the blade lighting up the nearby air. As he ran to destroy the device a gunshot rang out, and the device blew up . Skizzlekob had destroyed his own device.

For long moments, there was near absolute silence, a direct contrast to the maddening noise seconds before. No one moved- not the cowering Skavenslaves, not the panting tinker-rat, not the frozen Eshin rats, not even hulking rat ogres, who looked faintly alarmed. The only sound that could be heard was Retchet choking, for apparently he had been in the midst of eating when the cries occurred.

Sneekblade broke the silence, his raised voice a contrast to his nominal whisper but reflecting the traces of fear in his body that he, even now, was mustering the will to put down.

"Tinker-rat! What-what was that?"

Skizzlekob panted, his mind elsewhere. Angrily, and holding aloft his sword in a unsubtle gesture the tinker-rat could no doubt recognize, Sneekblade repeated himself.

Hastily, mustering himself, Skizzlekob responded

"I don't know my lord-master! Srech got ahold of clawpack 13 but they were-were frantic-maddened! Said they were being chased-followed! Asked many times by what but they did not answer, only kept repeating 'we dug-dug too deep!' Then the screams."

Retchet stood forward, he too mustering himself after having hacked up a ball of flesh that he had been choking on. He too was quivering excitably

"The rumors must be true-correct. The deep-things exist!"

Skizzlekob laughed scornfully, his voice hoarse with fear he was trying to suppress echoing through the mask.

"Don't blame fairy tales for your-your clan's failings, Retchet! They were clearly being chased by creatures, who is to say it wasn't Moulder's ?"

Retchet shook his head violently, his multiple chins wagging back and forth.

"No-no. I did not hear sounds of feasting, did any of you? " He looked around and none would deny it. Agony there was, but no telltale signs of the chomping of flesh. Retchet looked at Sneekblade now "Moulder digs deep, my lord. Perhaps deeper than any other clan. In the ninth circle we let-let most dangerous beasts roam wild-free, fighting and eating each other to make them strong. Sometimes caverns to lower-places open up and sometimes beasts wander down there. We hear their screams when they do, even on the eight circle. Most never return, but a few do and have wounds no-one can explain!"

There was another moment of silence, as the listeners considered Retchet's tale. One, however, clearly scoffed.

"You read-read too much Wellsacraft, fool-fool." Skizzlekob spoke contemptuously. Upon seeing Sneekblade's quizzical look, the Warplock explained "Old Warplock Engineer, lived a couple centuries ago. We-we mocked him as mad. He wrote many crazy-things, but one theory stated that, just as we lurk beneath the man-things, one day destined to claim their world, other-things- the deep-things – lusted after Skavenblight and the Under-empire, and would one day rise to claim ours even as we claimed the man-things!"

Skizzlekob paused here, before continuing "We thought him idiot-meat and expelled-exiled him to the dark-place he was so afraid of. We never saw again."

As Skizzlekob turned on Retchet, eager to argue again it was Clan Moulder's fault, Sneekblade's mind once again wandered to his teachings.

The beasts of the world had always fascinated Sneekblade and the young Skaven adept had spent some times learning about them, beyond the standard poisoning manuals. Man-things, elf-things, dwarf-things and rarer things behind. In one ancient annal written by a Grey Seer living in the time of Nagash, there had been tales related of ancient wars and species that well predated the Skaven. The Empire of worms. Bat-men. Creatures with the eyes of blind fish but with the jaws the size of their entire chest. The Cìhuái empire, a rumored insect dominion.

From everything Sneekblade had read, those races had long since been shattered by the time the Horned one created the Skaven but, in the early years, a warlord clan would occasionally claim to have encountered the remnants of a strange force and conquered them . Most were doubtless lies, but at least one had brought a strange beetle-thing body to prove them.

Could the Skaven have just driven the creatures deeper?

It was something to ponder and he resolved to do so…though later. It was also irrelevant to the task at hand. The easily distracted lesser clans were losing track of their main objective! They had to be brought back to task.

The item was the only thing of relevance here, curious floating orb about four hundred tail lengths from their position. It hovered, flamboyantly, a arrogant display from one who apparently never entertained the idea of visitors this deep. Or, more likely, a fateful and obvious lure, a proverbial mouse trap for the would-be invaders. The lure was manifest now, where was the spring?

"Enough!" He almost shouted, interrupted the bickering Skyre and Moulder rats, who were almost on the verge of drawing their weapons . He pointed at the floating orb that still hovered, teasingly, in the middle of the arena. "Get-get orb. Argue later!"

Tracht, seeing an opponent to gain favor with his master (and, doubtlessly, envisioning the possibilities of earning at least part credit for the mission) barked a harsh order to the slaves, offering freedom for the first to return the orb to lord Sneekblade.

Of course no one had any intention of honoring that offer but even the illusion of freedom gave the Skaven desperate hope.

One hundred and twenty slaves charged forward in a desperate mass, each striving to be the first who reached the orb. They trudged through a meter of snow, the weight of so many bodies causing it to sink in at some places. Other slipped in ice, tripping and falling before their fellows in a spectacle extremely amusing to the more fortunate Skaven leadership, who had the honored position of commanding bravely from the rear. Sneekblade himself chortled as a slave tripped in such a manner that he fell before another slave, causing a pile up of broken bodies and bones. Other, solitary Skaven who fell while in the lead were trampled deliberately into the snow as their cohorts realized that furry flesh offered a more stable ground than the ice and snow around them.

Of course such a grotesque stepping stone came at a price, as the screeching fallen Skaven were crushed beneath all that weight, a living sacrifice made in return for the gift of a single solid step. Was there any greater example of the Skaven mindset than that?

As the Skaven moved closer the Skaven commanders noticed the weather began to shift. The winds, already impossible this far down below, began to blow even harder than before. A few more Skaven tripped at the front under the wind's impact, never to get up (because their comrades, happy for more stepping stones, ensured so).

At the rear some of the Skaven commanders and specialists began to look around in confusion while others, those with an ounce of intelligence, knew instinctively what was occurring.

"Magic" Skizzlekob growled, one hand reaching to activate his warp power accumulator and allow the Warplock Engineer to perform a facsimile of magic himself.

As the slaves closed the last couple dozen meters, the snow on the ground was violently flung in the air by an unseen power, only to be slammed downward by the same force. Then the snow swirled, being molded into forms like a man-thing potter worked his clay. Swiftly, lupine forms formed and as the snow around them dissipated roughly a dozen wolves of ice- each the size of a rat ogre and as ferocious as a one too- stood in their place.

Squealing and screeching to a halt, the first two ranks of slaves began to desperately try to turn back and flee only to be pushed onwards by their rear-bound fellows. Possibly, the slaves towards the rear were unaware of the danger up front though Sneekblade thought it more likely they did _indeed_ know, which is why they would rather give the frozen beasts something fleshy to chew on as the more fortunate slaves continued their desperate dash for the artifact.

The Wolves- elemental monsters of rage and protective instinct- obliged. Like a Doomwheel crashing through a dwarf-thing shield wall the Ice wolves pulverized the slave front line in their initial charge, crushing many on the first rank beneath them even as they tore into the second with tooth and claw. Ice shredded through flesh like the cutting knife through silk, tearing whole limbs apart in each grasp with astonishing speed.

Sneekblade turned to Skizzlekob, an order on his lips, only for the warplock engineer to nod silently, his mind having already conceived of it. The Warplock engineer in turn barked an order to a few accompanying weapon teams who began to trudge forward through the snow, yet unnoticed by the wolves.

Frightened witless by their opponent's bloodlust and ferocity, the Skavenslaves broke in all directions. Some fled backwards to the perceived safety of Skaven lines, unknowing of Sneekblade's implicit orders. Others headed the other ends of the caves, while more still decided to put a desperate fight, tacking the wolves with frothing ferocity. Soon each wolf had at least 3 slaves on their back with one tackled beneath a mass of ten frantic ratmen, who gnawed and clawed desperately at the ice wolves' frozen exterior. In their panicked madness, the slaves paid no attention to the fact that their claws chipped off without even scratching the surface of ice wolves nor that their teeth shattered like glass on stone. No matter what they tried, they could not break the ice.

"Warpthrowers, fire-fire! Show wolves what happens when fire-warpstone meets ice-snow! " The Warpthrower teams, having now maneuvered themselves into position, obliged. From glowing green nozzles poured forth a torrent of liquid flame which rained like molten lava on the struggling forms of fur and ice. Screeches turned to piteous cries as the flame charred scores of slaves to a crisp, melting eyes in their sockets and causing skin to run like melted grease. A worthwhile sacrifice, in the calculus of Sneekblade's mind , for the trace elements of magical warpfire succeeded in doing what the slaves could not- destroying the mysterious ice wolves, who evaporated into steam. Sneekblade grinned in triumph and turned to give a new command to Clan Moulder and some of his own night runners, around 40 in number.

"Forward-move, mighty children of the Horned One! Onwards to victory! Seize orb before more frost-ice comes!"

All obliged, both to follow his orders and out of a desire to claim glory as the first to seize the artifacts. Sneekblade was pleased to note that the sleek clan Eshin night runners seized first place in the race as their learned agility and their sleek forms allowed them to run easily on the snow and ice. Meanwhile, the rat ogres sunk a foot or two with every step even as a handful of furious Moulder packmasters whipped them forward.

But of course Clan Skyre was still the closest, for their Warpflame throwers had to get within 50 meters to use their deadly weapons. Indeed, Clan Skyre lumbered forward now, their gaits still awkward but the distance already covered giving them an advantage. Of course even if they claimed the artifact they would still have to surrender it to Clan Eshin, one way or another (Sneekblade fingered his blade here, looking forward to one such possibility) but, for the moment, bragging rights would be theirs.

And then the winds swirled again, violently, throwing many of the Skaven back . Through the haze of snow and vapor, his magical senses picked up the faintest image of a man-thing, wreathed in ice and as tall as a giant-thing, directing the snows. Sneekblade's magical warp-sight could see that the giant's reach permeated everything in the cavern, from the stalactites to the tiniest flake of snow. Instinctively, Sneekblade knew that to duel such a creature magically would be folly of the highest order.

The vapor of the wolves swirled together at blinding speeds before hardening and compressing into a ball which then expanded outward into lupine forms once more. Newly formed and more ferocious than ever, the snarling wolves leapt over the smoking corpses of the skavenslaves (a few still moaning piteously) and dashed to their nearest foes- Clan Skyre.

The Tinker-rats, as stunned as Sneekblade at their enemy's reformation, frantically maneuvered their nozzles towards the beasts once more. They squeezed the triggers..once, twice and then in a furious succession. Nothing happened. The nozzles and everything up to the Warps-fueled containers had frozen solid. In a panic the Skyre rats drew their swords yet it was for naught as the wolves burst into their ranks, tearing Skyre flesh with the same equality they had once done to the slaves. Rank and station meant little to the ice fangs of the wolves of winter.

Sneekblade, thinking quickly of a new plan, yelled to his night runners "Fall back behind Rat Ogres! Let Moulder-meat take wolf charge, then sneak around!"

Of course, those words were said in full earshot of said Moulder. Retchet growled audibly (or perhaps that was his stomach?) only to be silenced by a glare from the Eshin assassin. Still, the services of Moulder might still be needed later on so, in an attempt to mollify the Moulder leader, he offered "You will be compensated".

Then Sneekblade looked around for his assembled death runners and ordered "Seize-take artifact however possible!"

He needn't have bothered with the last order, for the deathrunners – out of either a desire to impress their master or steal glory for themselves- were already creeping through the carnage. The cynic in Sneekblade thought the latter was more likely.

At the front, the Night runners had fallen behind the rat ogres who, in a bestial fury, slammed into the charging wolves with resounding clash. For the first time, the wolves had met their match in strength as the moulder creatures, mixes between skaven and more terrible things, pounded on ice with blows that could break a horses back while icy tooth and claw tore into their muscular chests. Still, Sneekblade suspected the Rat Ogres would have an advantage- if the wolves weren't constantly regenerating from their wounds, as their mysterious benefactor poured more magic into them.

True to Sneekblade's orders, the eshin night runners weaved through rat ogre and wolf alike to make the dash to the artifact. However, while they evaded the wolves they could not reckon with the magician. Winds, as strong a northern blizzard, buffeted the Night Runners with hurricane force, hurling them backwards at back-breaking speed. Other slipped and tripped as the snow and ice beneath them rapidly heated up to near melting point. Then, as the rats struggled to break their fleet out of the sudden slush, the snow re-solidified around their feet, trapping them in iron-strong ice.

Sneekblade narrowed his vision, looking for his deathrunners. They didn't get far, either. One, climbing through the stalactites on the ceiling, had his hand frozen to one of the lesser icicles. As the skaven tried desperately to free himself, his feet were also frozen as ice rapidly spread across his lower limbs. Then, the tiny shards of ice above his belly grew rapidly, drilling downward, agonizingly through the Eshin Agent. Another, weaving through the wolves with supernatural agility, slipped and skated as the floor rapidly turned to ice. The second Deathrunner was torn apart by two of the wolves (who had just finished their rat ogre opponents) even as he struggled to right himself, with the lupine beings seemingly now bothered by the slippery ground at all.

Regular Stealth tactics were not an option. There was but one left; magic. Sneekblade, hoping the unseen enemy sorcerer was occupied, drew upon the teachings of the Far East. He would use Skitterleap, the most staple of Eshin spells, to teleport to the artifact, and then swiftly teleport back. The act of doing so would, of course, ensure the subsequent assassination of everyone else in this mission barring the deathrunners, for the existence of Clan Eshin sorcerers was a closely guarded secret, one only the highest echelons of the command were permitted to know…

However, right as he was about to cast the spell, his whiskers- the embodiment of his heightened instincts- twitched violently. On a whim, he switched the target of his spell, teleporting instead Tratch- his closest potential rival among the deathrunners (and thus the most expendable) in his place…

Or at least he tried too. At the last second something disrupted his spell, a gargantuan aethyric presence that dwarfed any he had ever encountered, even superseding the most learned of the Grey Seers or the Celestial magi. The Deathrunner did not manifest by the artifact, instead the unfortunate skaven was forcibly merged with the ice wall in a segregated mass of fur, limbs and frost. Tratch, still alive, moaned terribly as Sneekblade finally panicked and gave into the awful realization that victory was impossible.

Then, as soon as he contemplated retreat, a form manifested by the artifact through a strange, circular portal through which the stars themselves and the dark void of space could be seen. A man-thing this creature looked like, but if it was one it was so heavily clothed in bandages as to be nearly unrecognizable to the Eshin sorcerer. For a moment, Sneekblade assumed it was the sorcerer who was behind the wizardry only for that notion to be quashed as the wolves, after a moment of hesitation, disengaged from their current combatants to charge the newcomer in a frenzy.

However they were too late and, in a blur, the bandaged man-thing grabbed the artifact and stepped, once more, through his portal before closing it once more.

It was in that moment that Sneekblade came to three realizations. The first, that his benefactor, the man-thing-that-not, never truly intended for the Skaven to capture the artifact. The second, that the intensity of the howl on the winds could only signify a god-like fury beyond which anything the Skaven had yet experienced. The third, a tactical analysis, that retreat for Sneekblade was required, with the remaining units entrusted to sacrifice themselves as the Eshin assassin preserved himself for the glory of Skavendom.

For what was the purpose of underlings, save to throw their lives way for their betters?

* * *

AN: I posted one in a week interview to make up for my delay with the last. Next update will be in Chronicles of Convergence in hopefully two weeks!

To Madfrog2000 Thank you for the comment good sir! As for Gul'dan I have big plans for him for he is almost as big an instigator as Be'lakor. Next chapter we will check in our favorite orc warlock.

To EVA-Saiyajin Thank you! I hope this Warhammer chapter is to your fancy!

To Dios de la nada Thank you for the comment, though I am confused by it. I think you are referring to the 'ten thousand orc'. I wrote a whole section on Warcraft/Warhammer numbers in the "Azeroth meets the End Times" but I have found, based on developer comments and numbers given in the novels, the estimate is reasonable. According to the creative developer even the rare High level heroes number in the tens of thousands while the newest WOW novel gives a brief (if offhand) estimate to goblin numbers in the low millions…Goblins being one of the less common horde races (above Blood Elves, 2/4 allied races and probably Tauren, but almost certainly below Forsaken, Orcs and unified trolls). We can do some extrapolation from that and it seems perfectly reasonable to me that AU Draenor- which hadn't had orc populations drained by decades of ceaseless war- can meet those numbers.

Bear in mind I am also going to the higher end estimates on numbers for both fictions.


	4. The Subverted Invasion

I own nothing, WOW, Warcraft and the like belong to Blizzard while Warhammer belongs to Games Workshop. Other references I snuck in belong to their own owners. Also this fic belows mostly tells the story of a already written official script, The Tomb of Sargeras, but from Kil'Jaden's perspective.

" _It was at the height of the ritual that I saw it- a vision from the Dark Titan himself, passed down by our master, Lord Stormrage! There does not exist a term in your language- in any mortal language- for the unending carnage I witnessed. The death of a billion species passed before my unwilling eyes, the immolation of countless worlds. I saw cities that occupied entire worlds reduced to endless planes of slag, oceans boiled to evaporation with their underwater societies cooked alive like lobsters in the pot, vast fleets of vessels that sailed through the stars destroyed like ships in the storm by the unstoppable Legion. Everything was burned, all those great and powerful examples of mortal civilization rendered impotent against the predators of the Nether._

 _And then the vision got worse. This time I saw not just one universe but a near infinity of them, a complex fractal structure, where new worlds were born each minute from the decisions made a heartbeat before. In every conceivable reality the Legion stood triumphant over broken husks and mortal detritus. I saw Azeroth itself….set alight a million times, I saw myself killed in increasingly creative ways many more. Reality condensed, squeezed from without as the range of possible futures narrowed to but a few._

 _It was a vision of destruction devoid of any answer to the only question that was on my hopeless mind: Why? " -Demon Hunter Allaria the Soul Eater_

Cast adrift for hours at sea, forced to paddle ashore with naught but his own deformed hands, the orc passed out seemingly from exhaustion when he finally reached the shore. The observer – the Orc's master and guide both- reluctantly allowed the orc a precious few moments of rest in a concession to mortal feebleness. Duly, the observer –Kil'Jaden- noted the silent approach of one of the mana-addled elves of nearby Suramar, no doubt intent on draining the Orc's magical essence to sate his own unquenchable addiction. Kil'Jaden made no motion to warn his servant, for if Gul'dan could not handle a simple addict than he was less than useless to the daemon lord. Instead leaned back as he he sat on his Argus throne and watched via their soul link, which allowed him to guide servants across dimensions.

Fortunately, whatever else he may be, Gul'dan was capable. Powerful. And most importantly hungry for more. The Shal'dorei stalker was caught and easily dispatched, though in fashion unnecessarily sadistic for Kil'jaden's taste. Such was Gul'Dan's way. The orc was a child fixated on childhood transgressions, eager to take out his inner hate on anything and everything he met. Gul'dan's unquenchable desire to achieve revenge against the wider universe for his misfortunes is what made the orc so susceptible to the Legion in the first place.

Still, a flawed tool was a tool nonetheless and sadists were aplenty in the Legion.

"What is he?" the orc asked aloud, albeit in a whisper. An irrelevant question. The tool gets distracted too easily. Still, Kil'Jaden responded via their mental link.

—NIGHTFALLEN. AN EXILE FROM SURAMAR.—

More Nightfallen scurried nearby, fleeing the gruesome fateof their compatriot. It was for not. Gul'dan ripped the life-force from their forms, leaving them withered husks.

"Is this the Place? The Broken Isles?" Gul'dan asked as he greedily consumed the stolen life force, taking his time to savor consumption. Shortsighted. The Orc did not realize that his time was short, his the fel signature of his incantations easily detectable by someone trained in magical detection.

—YES. KEEP MOVING.—

The Orc did not. He continued to stand, panting heavily, his irritation easily detected across the soul link. "I need time" he muttered. Ki'Jaden's response was blunt and truthful, for his astral vision beheld much that the orc could not.

Enemies were closing in. The tool had to move- and fast.  
—YOU HAVE NONE TO SPARE.—

Again, it whined and dug in, leaning its back against a boulder. ""I need time. The archmage is more powerful than you know." He was still panting and spoke again as if that would add additional credence to his words. "I need _more_ time."

—NO.—

Still, the orc did not move. Defiance, though one born more out of biological fragility than spiritual resistance. Time was short, so Kil'Jaden was more direct.

—YOU DISOBEY ME?—

Gul'dan hissed and responded angrily ""I have proved my loyalty a thousand times over."

Blasphemy. Lies to the one who had earned his moniker from lying. Did the orc think his treachery was so easily forgotten?

—YOU HAVE FAILED AGAIN AND AGAIN. YOU'VE PROVED NOTHING-

Then it happened. The vision of the Orc vibrated, shimmered and then, forcefully, split like a species of microbe undergoing binary fission. Had Kil'Jaden not seen this occur billions of times he would have sighed. Truly, the mortal realms were a realm of madness.

In his mind's eye he saw two Gul'dans leaning against a boulder, both sullen and resentful like a spoilt child of Old Argus.

However where one stood up, reluctantly, the other bitterly cursed his benefactor's presumptions, speaking aloud of what the other was no doubt thinking. Of how the Legion had failed on Draenor, how every one of its schemes had come to nothing and how even Archimonde had fallen before the champions of this world.

Kil'Jaden observed and analyzed the pair, using the multitude of senses gifted to him by Sargeras long ago. Even normal daemonic eyes would have difficulty telling the two apart. Same appearances, same histories, same motivations and same personalities. Same thoughts even, though such was not always the case, with the only difference being in this manifestation the way of expressing them.

The same soul….

Once, the difficulty of discerning between the two Gul'dans would have driven Kil'Jaden to near madness. His skill had improved since then though, forged over countless millennia of mortal interaction. Through his magical sight he could now discern the faintest translucence that separated the Gul'dan connected to the central vein (if haphazardly now) and the orc warlock connected to the tributary. Without a second thought or muttered word, he cut the second orc off from the mental link and redoubled his focus on the first, who was- thankfully- the smarter of the two.

No doubt the second orc, bereft of Kil'Jaden's guidance, would soon perish to the pursuing archmage or the Kaldorei wardens. It was no matter.

Still, the daemon lord considered the doomed Gul'dan's words and admitted that they were spoken in truth. The Burning Legion _had_ failed. Such an actuality deserved further ruminations.

Unaware of his master's thoughts, or the fate of the echo-Gul'dan, the Gul'dan before him whispered aloud.

"Where, then, should I go?" he asked, his voice as cold as death.

Graciously, Kil'Jaden ignored the tonal inflection.

—RETRACE YOUR STEPS.—

Gul'dan looked back toward the ocean. "I don't understand" he said. Through their mental link, Kil'Jaden sensed the warlock was truthful. Inwardly, the daemon lord resigned himself to having to provide closer guidance. Such was the problem working with mortals, who, for all their claim to having five senses (at least) they were near blind compared to a daemon.

—YOU HAVE VISITED THESE ISLANDS BEFORE. DECADES AGO. DO YOU NOT SENSE IT?—

Kil'Jaden could, easily. Echoes of the Central Gul'dan still lingered on this island. Quickly, the daemon corrected himself. Soul-Echoes, not time echoes. Fragments of a powerful soul who had died in great violence- and Gul'dan had died in great violence. The daemons had made sure of that.

Their souls were one; surely Gul'Dan could sense that? Yet Kil'Jaden could not detect a lie in his thoughts…at least on the surface. The soul link wasn't always perfect and Kil'Jaden knew he could not entirely factor out the possibility of a falsehood.

"That was not me," Gul'dan snapped "We are not the same."

 _Yes you are. He was more you than you._

The Gul'dan before him was an echo who had not yet faded into silence, a living afterthought not yet fallen into entropy. For the purposes of their task, Kil'Jaden had worked his magic to 'stabilize'' the connection of this Gul'dan to Azeroth. However, he would never be the First.

Kil'Jaden knew that he would only confuse his servant in attempting to explain this so he said simply.

—IF YOU ARE NOT, YOU ARE NO USE. GO NORTH.—

Fortunately, this Gul'dan did not even think of contesting the Kil'Jaden's command. Thus a possibility had been rendered stillborn.

Once, a botanist-turned-daemon had once described the mortal realms as a vast, sprawling, unkempt plant- a tree, specifically. Spiraling skyward this tree trunk grew uncounted branches of could-have-been-decisions and what-if possibilities at every turn. However, these branches lacked the ability to truly grow on their own, their life cycle limited substantially in mortal lifespans rather than the billions of years of the main branch and each further possibility, each twig on the branch, further limited its potential. Left alone they would eventually wither and die on their own, their mortal inhabitants ceasing to exist as if they never were. Though, as the recent debacle on Draenor showed, these branches could be stabilized by intervention of those of the trunk. Such occasions were rare, however,

That said Kil'Jaden had always prized thoroughness and efficiency. He ordered the alternate timeways purged whenever he could. Each alternate excursion provided new possible recruits, new insight for the commanders and preparation for striking targets on the main limb. For example, Azeroth itself had been destroyed thousands of times already in preparation for this final invasion- some by Kil'Jaden and some by Archimonde. Likewise, Kil'Jaden's orders kept other, exceedingly unlikely possibilities in check, such as the potential for a branch to successfully stabilize and grow on its own, or to counter the mad possibility of a time-wielding rogue of the main branch uniting all the potential limbs into a vast, infinite army.

As Gul'Dan shambled north, he seemed to pause and consider something. Another Gul'Dan shimmered into place, the result of a dichotomous choice made in hesitation.

"What happened here? With… the other one?"

This time it was the necessary Gul'dan who spoke. Without a hint of remorse, he cut the other, wiser Gul'dan off from his powers. While he could have maintained them both, the other was useless to his plans and could, at best, only help damn a shadow of a world. It was the trunk, the river that was important; not the branch or the tributary.

Kil'Jaden considered the question. If this Gul'dan truly did not know his own fate, then perhaps it would be wise to keep him ignorant of it. Thus the Eredar answered vaguely, in a manner that would no doubt rankle the orc.

—YOU RAISED AN ISLAND, THAL'DRANATH, FROM THE WATERS.—

Sure enough Gul'dan asked "At your command?". This was a dangerous line of questioning.

—YOU ARE NOT HERE TO ASK QUESTIONS. YOU ARE HERE TO VISIT THAT ISLAND AGAIN. IT IS A LONG WALK. MOVE.—

The orc warlock's eyes glittered but he nevertheless continued on. No doubt he was furiously hypothesizing in regards to what happened on the island.

"May I at least ask what is on that island?"

 _As if you do not know._

—THE TOMB OF SARGERAS.—

The Orc sensed that others were nearby and activated a cloak of fel magic that turned him temporary invisible. A simple spell that a novice among the daemons of the Burning Legion could perform, but an effective spell here nonetheless. The Orc maintained vigilance but his mind was clearly racing with more questions. '

"Sargeras's tomb? He's dead?" he whispered. It was a question of such overwhelming ignorance that Kil'Jaden momentarily lost his dispassion.

—YOU UNDERSTAND NOTHING.—

Kil'Jaden must have given that answer a thousand times yet the hint was never taken, never acknowledged by the orc's insatiably curious mind. The Eredar Lord could normally work with curiosity; indeed he had deceived and corrupted countless millions of mortal scholars over the course of the Legion's crusade. Yet this was not the time. The curiosity only served as a distraction, a potential crisis point that would jeopardize the main objective.

Suddenly, the orc crouched down on high alert. He had detected the approaching Kaldorei watchers- the prison wardens of that primitive race. Unaware of the proximity of her quarry, she walked by the orc and headed north. Kil'Jaden raised his eyebrow at Gul'dan's uncharacteristic restraint but settled it once he began to follow her north. Of course. The Orc didn't just want to drain one soul- he wanted to drain the souls of as many as he could at once, like a gluttonous Imp Mother.

The Eredar considered Gul'dan's prospects, considered whether he would allow the orc to go through with the action. The nourishment provided by a ten thousand year elven soul would boost the warlock's strength immensely, making the unlocking of the tomb an easier affair. Yet the release of fel magic would serve to draw Khadgar's attention and alone of the mortals on this island the archmage remained the most capable of disrupting the Legion's plans. As much as the warlock would deny it Khadgar truly was Gul'dan's equal in power and ability.

The daemon lord's assessment was altered after the warden met back with her kind and the name 'Shadowsong' was spoken aloud. It was an old name among the agents of the Legion on this world, a feared name. For ten millennia on this world she had captured thousands of the Burning Legion agents, ruining hundreds of planned invasion attempts. When she found out that she could not kill her charges, as the act of doing so would send the daemon's soul back to the Twisting Nether for an eventual return, she pioneered techniques that imprisoned daemons indefinitely in magical crystals. In a twist of sadism the warden ensured that her prisoners remained fully aware and alert during the duration of their immobile imprisonment.

Gul'dan was suffused with great power, for a mortal, but Kil'Jaden had seen from afar how the warden had subdued another errant servant, Illidan Stormrange, on two occasions. Victory was not assured with Maiev Shadowsong present.

As the daemon watched a peculiar raven swooped downward. Defeat was now assured. No, defeat had to be avoided. Obedience needed to be assured.

—HIDE.—

Kil'jaeden's voice thundered through the warlock's mind. Gul'dan nearly collapsed from the sheer force of it. He dropped his hands, his ambush forgotten. "What…?"

Fortunately, the orc possessed the wits to redouble his cloaking spell once he detected the raven. As Kil'Jaden watched through his aerial viewpoint the raven circled the group of wardens- once, twice and then landed. In the blink of an eye, the raven transformed. The man who remained walked with a confident stride.

Kil'Jaden could taste the warlock's hate, feel his burning desire for revenge. . Troublesome. Revenge was a dish best served leisurely not when the odds so heavily favored the Other. The warlock's emotions left him compromised. As Khadgar conversed- tensely, Kil'Jaden noticed- with the Warden, Gul'dan itched to cast an incantation.

Gul'dan silently cursed. "I should end this fool now," he said.

—THEY ARE IRRELEVANT. LEAVE.—

"I can kill them all."

—YOU ARE NOT HERE FOR THEM. OBEY, GUL'DAN.—

Reality split again. On one plane, Gul'Dan cursed and mustered his incredible prowess for an almighty attack. Born from hate, the spell leapt from his fingers like an archer's arrow zooming for the archmage and the head warden. Caught in surprise, neither had time to react- but one their subordinates managed to. One of the lesser Wardens collided with her mistress, toppling the warden into archmageand knocking them both over. She was immolated; body and soul, by the fiendish spell but the act gave Maiev and Khadgar time to untangle themselves even as Gul'dan angrily prepared his next blast….

In another, Gul'dan angrily seethed, clearly considering treason, but nonetheless obeyed. Fortune favored Kil'Jaden as, once again, the prudent Gul'dan turned out to be the central link. In the other pane Gul'dan called for aid as his fel-shield withered under Khadgar's powerful arcane missiles. Right as Maiev Shadowsong teleported behind the Warlock, umbra glaive poised, another pane forming from Gul'dan's actions, the daemon lord severed that connection.

"I serve, Kil'jaeden." The Warlock's voice strained with audible reluctance.

—YOUR DESTINATION IS TO THE EAST. FIND A WAY TO TRAVERSE THE BAY. YOU NO LONGER HAVE TIME TO WALK AROUND SURAMAR.—

Gul'dan seethed but, petulantly, he snuck off to the shoreline, there procuring a small rowboat. The orc used manual labor to row off the coast and, then, once confident he was out of range for Khadgar's immediate detection, used fel magic to empower the craft. A great burst of fel fire appeared on its underside, the fire itself consuming the life in the ocean-down to the tiniest microbe- as fuel. Gul'dan sped forward at speeds beyond the technological capabilities of boats of this world and Kil'Jaden had to admit he was impressed by the small innovation.

As Gul'dan sped towards the Broken Shore, Kil'Jaden idly wondered if he could afford to enter that timeline. The Twisting Nether transcended all realities and a master of the demonic realm had the privilege –or the misfortune- of being view all said timelines at any given time. Kil'Jaden had already narrowed his sight to a microscopic point through his soul link with Gul'dan, limiting himself greatly. Yet, by entering that realm, by leaving the Twisting Nether, he could temporary bind his physical form to that timeline and see as a mortal saw things.

No, he reluctantly conceded, that would be unwise. The Daemon Lord was needed here, to facilitate the opening of the portal. This work was too important to entrust to any underling, no matter how important. As for asking his Master for help...

Kil'Jaden gripped the arm of the throne that he currently sat on, tightly. For long moments, his body was terse, his face locked into a ghost of a snarl. Then, slowly, the daemon who prided himself on his dispassion and efficiency relaxed. It would not do to think of his own master at the moment, for Sargeras had shown little interest in helping to secure the planet he claimed to prize above any other. He had ordered Kil'Jaden to invade and then, seemingly, cast all thoughts of the world aside for his own projects. Instead, it was all delegated to Kil'Jaden…

The Orc's voice interrupted his thoughts. Kil'Jaden's focus returned to the warlock who had just arrived at the Tomb of Sargeras and was even now nullifying the arcane barriers designed to keep intruders out.

"What is inside? Guards? Traps?" Gul'dan asked.

Kil'Jaden thought for a moment. The answer was an obvious one; he had no idea how Gul'dan could not see it.

—YOUR PURPOSE.—

Gul'dan paused. The Orc clearly did not expect that answer. "What will you have me do?"

So, the tool still had no inclination to its wielder's intent. Very well, the daemon would have to spell it out.

—YOU WILL OPEN THE WAY FOR US.—

Gul'dan didn't understand. "We tried that on Draenor." It was a lie, but perhaps one the orc sincerely believed. Gul'Dan always did mistake personal concerns for concerns of the greater legion. He was like Archimonde, in a way.

—THERE, YOU SOUGHT TO CLEAR THE PATH YOURSELF. HERE, YOU NEED MERELY TURN THE KEY. THEN YOU WILL KNOW OUR TRUE POWER.—

The Orc was doing well now. Kil'Jaden had to admit that. He was taking down barriers set by mages with century honed aptitude was ease. Yet the Orc's mind was clearly elsewhere. "This is what the other Gul'dan was meant to do. What happened?"

—YOU FAILED YOUR PURPOSE.—

The Orc was angry. "That was not me," he growled. Another lie. The Gul'dan below was a living self-portrait pointing to its subject and denying a connection. Still, perhaps the portrait had deluded himself enough to believe _**he**_ was the subject, and the other the picture.

Not wanting to argue the point, Kil'Jaden merely said

—WE WILL SEE.—

The Orc's next question was far more dangerous.

"How did he fail?"

Kil'Jaden settled for a one word answer.

—DISLOYALTY.—

It was the truth of the past and also a warning for the future. Hopefully, the orc could pick up on both connotations.

Whether he did, or he didn't, the orc's thoughts were obscured but doubtless that was caused by the needed focus on the task at hand. With a final incantation, the last barrier was removed. With a new eagerness, the orc entered the tomb. Kil'Jaden no longer needed to urge him on, as Gul'dan had ever sought the acquisition of greater power in a manner that only those who had once been powerless could understand.

"Guide me, Kil'jaeden," Gul'dan said. "I will succeed."

As the daemon lord guided his servant through the maze of twisting corridors and decaying ruins, he at last allowed his mind to wander to the Draenor incident and the death of Archimonde.

Draenor- or at least a branch of it- had been a disastrous debacle from beginning to end. Impossible events seem to conspire to ruin the best laid plans at every turn. Gul'Dan's efforts to subvert the orc race had been thwarted by another orc who was from neither that reality nor time, who in that realm would never exist. All of Kil'Jaden's well laid plans had collapsed like a house of cinder against that thrice-damned time traveling orc. Sargeras had mocked Kil'Jaden's failure then, chastising his inability to predict what was simply unpredictable!

The responsibility for the planet's destruction had been given to Archimonde the Despoiler. Archimonde, the co-leader of the Eredar and the right fist of Sargeras even as Kil'Jaden was his left. Archimonde, the closest person Kil'Jaden ever had to a brother along with-

 _No,_ he thought, as his fists tightened around his throne with far greater intensity than they had for Sargeras, _it wouldn't help to think of HIM now._

Though Archimonde was Kil'Jaden's equal, they couldn't be more different in style. While Kil'Jaden forgave followers who erred when they failed a task, preferring to never discard a tool that might prove useful, Archimonde burned through lieutenants with the same immolating form the Legion used to purge worlds. He was a brutal and unforgiving taskmaster who brooked neither failure nor subtlety, a commander obsessed with the pursuit of immediate power at all costs. He was bold where Kil'Jaden was contemplative, blunt where Kil'Jaden was subtle, one-dimensional where Kil'Jaden preferred to look at all possibilities.

But, most importantly of all, Archimonde had failed where Kil'Jaden had not….only been setback.

Where Kil'Jaden had planned to subvert the orcs as a new tool to use the Draenei, hiding the daemon's presence until the final act, Archimonde swiftly abandoned all pretense of subtly and led a daemonic invasion of the world as soon as Gul'dan was able to open the path. He sought to cut a path with flame and steel where cloak and dagger would have been more effective. The corruption of much of the remnant of Hellscream's foolish Iron Horde had only been a bonus objective accomplished by a greedy Gul'dan. Whereas Kil'Jaden has encouraged his pupil to rule through the shadows Archimonde encouraged the orc to rule unhidden and open, a blunt appeal to the orc's vast vanity. And that, at least, had worked.

In the end, what did Archimonde accomplish? The portal had not been powerful enough to sustain the full army of Argus, yet Archimonde pressed on anyway. In all of existence, in all the chaotic Twisting Nether and the infinitely malleable mortal realms, Kil'Jaden reckoned he had encountered scant few who could match- or even come close to- Archimonde's level of arrogance and conniving determination. It was to be his downfall here.

He had ever believed the champions of Azeroth to be contemptable insects and the inhabitants of Draenor to be even less. Yet, within two months, the Fel Iron Horde had been broken across the Azerothian knee, the remnants besieged inside Gul'Dan's mighty Citadel and the surrounding environs. Archimonde, never once wavering from his conviction of an easy victory, pressed on.

In the climax of that mighty final battle Archimonde himself had manifested and even dragged the champions of Azeroth and Draenor to his home realm where he was strongest. Knowing Archimonde, he no doubt sought to crush the mortal's spirit with a showing of his greatest possible power, seeking to see his foes wallow in hopeless and despair before snuffing out the souls that remained.

It didn't work. Worse, in his arrogance Archimonde had forgotten that the source of a daemon's power was also its greatest liability. Those of his kind who died in the mortal realms had a replaceable body torn asunder…those who passed in the Twisting Nether had their souls torn apart.

Archimonde wasn't coming back.

On the whole, this gladdened the archdaemon. No longer did he have to share leadership of the Eredar with Archimonde. No longer could Sargeras politick the two against each other in endless games for the titan's own dark amusement, no longer did Kil'Jaden have to deal with blunt threats from the Defiler nor make subtle threats of retaliation in return. No longer did Kil'Jaden have a true rival among Sargeras' legion, for other than the fallen titan himself none that remained approached his power.

And yet…

Archimonde was one of the few that truly knew Kil'Jaden before the arrival of Sargeras- knew who he was in those golden days when they, together with the OTHER, had ruled Argus at its apex of achievement. War, toil, famine and the other struggles of mortal existence had been barely remembered relics of a distant past in those days. The Eredar had reached a state of advancement that made the elves of this world seem like their barbarous orcs in comparison.

In the untold millennia since Archimonde and Kil'Jaden had hated and distrusted one another as all daemons did, been envious of each other's power, sought to sabotage one another and occasionally even ordered half-hearted assassination attempts. Yet, at the same time, there was a reluctant respect, even comradery there that did not exist between other daemons. There was an understanding, even.

And now he was gone, gone like the glory that was Old Argus and the promises of a better future. A mortal observer might have characterized what Kil'Jaden felt as sadness, mourning even. The Daemon would have called said mortal a fool and then immolated his or her soul for their impudence. Kil'Jaden certainly would not have lifted a finger to avert his rival's demise if he knew of it ahead of time Perhaps he would have even abetted, providing subtle aid from afar. And yet the honest part of the daemon could not deny to himself that, deep down, there was true melancholy there. It was a rare feeling for a mortal turned daemon who had taught himself to shut off such feeble mortal sensibilities long ago.

Kil'Jaden had long honed his mind to perfection to ensure that it was the finest weapon in the Legion arsenal. Thus, while he allowed his mind to wander onto his fallen brother, his focus had never wavered from Gul'Dan. Such attention paid off now as he hastily sent a warning to his disciple to prepare for enemy contact. The orc, transfixed by the summoning ritual on the ground, did not act fast enough. Only the warlock's potent warding, aided slightly by the daemon lord pouring the tiniest portion of his own strength through the connection

In the archmage strolled, his form showcasing supreme confidence and bristling violet arcane energy that, around the archmage's body, seemed to take a life of their own. Through his daemonic sight Kil'Jaden could see the archmage as a wellspring of the violet order magic of the titans while Gul'dan served as a fountain of chaotic fel energy .

 _Here we were again_ , Kil'Jaden thought wryly to himself.

Arcane and order, fel and chaos. The Daemon Lord had seen those two opposing magics clash uncounted times across millions of worlds. Ever did order rise to oppose Chaos just as Chaos sought to pervert order. Of course these were nothing more than quaint affairs, soft throwbacks and reverberations to a time when the conflict had actually been contested and not forgone. Every battle, every skirmish, every magical duel was nothing more than the palest shade of that mighty cataclysm between the Lord of the Legion, Sargeras, and the rest of the mighty Titans. The war had been unfathomably vast, scarring reality forever. In the end, Sargeras won and with that victory the ultimate fate of order had been sealed.

Kil'Jaden had not been part of the Legion when Sargeras destroyed his former brethren but he still sometimes felt its reverberations, like the aftershocks of a continent shattering earthquake.

Through Kil'Jaden's soul link, he watched the pair clash. Brilliant, violet bolts hammered resoundingly against a translucent sickly green shield. Molten meteors, burning brightly with a fire that could consume souls as well as flesh, were drawn by gravity towards the archmage, who expertly dodged around them using a well-timed series of personal teleportation. At the end of his blink Khadgar sent a single spike of ice the size of a ballista's bolt at the green shield. It penetrated two feet in, missing the orc's skin by a hair and causing the warlock to snarl and retaliate with his own fel spikes.

And that was only one plane…

To compare a wizard's battle with a normal duel would be to compare the mind of an Eredar with that of an imp. In one, you have a force capable of advanced stratagems, bursting with infinite complexity and imagination. The other was one dimension, transparent, and at best capable of variances of the same tricks. In a normal duel the challengers might consider a few dozen tricks. A magic user-regardless of source of magic- had literally thousands of spells available in their reservoirs and though some spells were certainly favored more than others for their combat potential, there was still a dazzling variety that produced headaches for the daemonic watcher.

Once, Kil'Jaden had led an assault against a machine world whose inhabitants, instead of relying their advanced personal weaponry, used insidious metallic gnats to counter the legions of daemonic foes on their door steps. At first the threat had seemed laughable but, as the gnats were unleashed, they tore through flesh with unthinkable speed, forming more of themselves with every microbe consumed. The Legion hadn't been able to conquer that world, not truly, but its objectives were still achieved as the gnats, corrupted by their glutting on daemonic flesh, turned on their own creators at the apex of the conflict. Within days of the invasion, the world was as much a lifeless husk as it would have been if the Legion had torched it.

Watching the duel from the ethereal plane that connected all mortal realities, Kil'Jaden felt a distinct sense of Déjà vu.. Every choice in battle, every potential counter, every random stroke of luck and out of control circumstance led to the creation of a new possibility, the addition of a new future. No, not addition. Multiplication. Each possibility beget yet more potentialities, more near misses and could-have-beens and other visions that swirled together like a blinding vortex of incoherent madness! The archdaemon forced himself to focus. Only one plane mattered- that of the central trunk- and his mind moved to rapidly sever connections with any useless extras. In a manner, Kil'Jaden was moving faster than the combatants themselves.

Though he tried not to focus on any but the central plane, Kil'Jaden could not help but notice some of the possibilities cast aside. In some Gul'Dan achieved the upper hand or even victory. In one pane Gul'Dan impaled the archmage's feet on enormous fel spikes and then sent a third through the screaming human's chest. In another, the warlock breached the mage's arcane barrier with a fel explosion, sending limbs and gore flying in all different directions. Kil'Jaden felt nothing for abandoning a triumphant Gul'dan in those alternate possibilities, though he did keep a note on how to access them again. When the invasion of Azeroth commenced he would seek to reopen those connections so that the commanders **of** Argus could hone their tactics in other realms as they worked to subvert, at last, the one and true timeline.

Yet, just as Kil'Jaden noted the instances of Gul'dan's victory he also noted the occasions of his defeat, which to the daemon's eyes outnumbered those of triumph. In one scene, the Archmage froze the warlock in ice and then shattered his form into a thousand pieces like glass. Another had the mage successfully polymorph the warlock, a temporary fix as the will of the warlock was more than enough to break free of the spell but it lasted long enough for the mage to set his sheep opponent on fire. In a third, more impressive circumstance the archmage cast a mysterious spell that seemingly did nothing, before going on the defensive, launching a number of arcane bolts that forced Gul'Dan to summon up his fel shield in defense. Then the mage teleported behind the warlock, forcing Gul'Dan to turn, before the truth of the first spell was revealed. Time rewound, as Khadgar appeared back in the spot he cast his mysterious spell and blasted Gul'dan's unprotected back with an arcane burst.

The glimpses were enough, the possibilities were clear. This duel favored Khadghar and though the Gul'dan bound to the central timeline fought on, he was more likely to lose than not. Too, Kil'Jaden considered possibilities for Khadgar, long term predictions based on the archmage's own personality traits that might herald a change in the human's allegiance.

Kil'Jaden made his decision and sent a simple command to his servant.

 _Gul'dan, stop this_.

The orc snarled the heat of battle driving away what little tact he possessed and causing him to curse his master.

"Stay out of this!"

Unruly. Undisciplined. Though the daemon knew Gul'dan had secretly favored the leash of the Defiler over that of the Deceiver, Archimonde would have had the orc flayed alive for speaking thus.

—OBEY ME. WITHDRAW.—

"I can kill him!" Gul'dan raged.

Can yes, should or would were different question though.

Khadgar grinned; sweat beginning to shine on his forehead. "Who is that, Gul'dan? Who holds your leash?" Gul'dan responded with a wordless roar, hurling even more power at the archmage. Sparks flew, but Khadgar deflected the energy with a hoarse laugh. "Which of your masters have we not slain yet?"

 _He is too easily enraged by childish insults,_ Kil'Jaden thought to himself, with growing annoyance. The daemon was growing tired of his servant's continuing insolence. He was not Archimonde, but even the patience of Kil'Jaden had limits.

Kil'jaeden's voice gripped Gul'dan's mind.

—END THIS! NEITHER OF YOU CAN DIE THIS DAY.—

"What?!"

—DO IT NOW!—

It was not simply an order; it was an ultimatum. Gul'dan would obey, or he would find himself cut off from the Legion. Immediately.

So he obeyed. Gul'dan flung his arms wide, spreading his power into a thin sheet of pure fel fire. Khadgar's attack smashed through it, but as the sheet collapsed, it unleashed a blinding explosion of light. Khadgar shielded his eyes. When the glare faded, Gul'dan was gone.

Pleased, the daemon fed what power he could through the soul-link, buffeting the orc with greater power to shield his illusion spell. The orc skulked in the shadows, taking care to put as many physical impediments between him and the archmage as possible instead of simply relying on the spell.

"I cannot finish your task without his sensing it," Gul'dan quietly said to Kil'jaeden. "Let me kill him."

The daemon had to admit there was some logic to Gul'dan's attempts at reasoning. A mage of Archmage's power would be able to find the warlock eventually, even with Kil'Jaden's guidance it would only be a matter of time.

Still, the eredar saw great potential in the archmage. He wasn't willing to give up just yet.

—HE WILL DO ANYTHING TO CLAIM VICTORY. THAT WILL BE AN OPPORTUNITY FOR US. LATER.—

Through their spirit-link Kil'Jaden felt skepticism but not incredulity. The orc knew firsthand the truth of just how far he Khadgar would go towards victory. Cordana Felsong, the warden who had pledged loyalty to the Legion, had put it best, in words that echoed across worlds:

"Khadgar is just a child, swaggering around, torturing his prisoners, playing with lives, dabbling in magics he pretends to comprehend."

His behavior, beyond just the testament of Cordana, reeked of desperation. It shined in every inane objective handed down to his subordinates, every champion of Azeroth carelessly thrown into a outmatched conflict, every occasion in which Khadgar personally risked his own life while trying to subvert his enemies designs.

Khadgar knew. Knew of the Legion's true power. Kil'Jaden was sure of it. That was the source of his desperation and the reason he sought any and all available means to boost his power. This provided an opening and this would be his downfall. Telepathically, the order was sent to one of the Legion's best agents. Soon the agent would stand in the tower of Medvih, disguised and illusioned, ready to offer Khadgar the power of the guardian, the power to end the Legion's invasion. Power with some…strings attached.

Back on Azeroth, Khadgar was taunting the orc and comparing him to a felhound led along on a leash. It was a truthful comparison, in Kil'Jadeen's view, though the dog in this case was rather unruly. The insults clearly rankled Gul'Dan who seemed to have skin so thin as to be comparable to a rotting cadaver. Magically projecting his voice, the orc returned the insults.

"Khadgar, I never thanked you for your help. The Iron Horde would have been difficult to cut down on my own. You and your friends were most useful," he said.

It was a rather foolish return, given how the rest of the Draenor campaign went. Idiotic, too, as a mage of Khadgar's potential could surely trace the voice, even with the magical projection.

Khadgar laughed aloud, for he remembered well the overwhelming success Azeroth achieved against Hellscream's Horde…and the later success against Gul'Dan's, as well. Then, the archmage sent a blast of fire zeroing in on where his mage-sight pinpointed the warlock to be. Such was its power, its heat, that it liquefied two stone columns and sent an avalanche of rocks crumbling from the ceiling.

Once again different specters appeared before his eyes, different visions of clashing-potentials. In some the attack was a direct hit and with a high pitched screech the orc melted like glass. In others, the orc dodged but then went on the defensive.

Fortunately, the Gul'dan central to the Legion's plans stayed hidden and, wisely, silent. Disappointed that his guess was seemingly off, the mage turned his back and began to scan another area of the tomb.

Softly, Gul'dan whispered to his master, pleading that the daemon tell him what was in the tomb and how to release it.

Kil'Jaden considered his request. Awesome power was stored in the tomb, power capable of immolating cities or creating a portal that could link dimensions together. Yet the power laid sealed behind potent wards put in place by the cursed Highborne, which were later amplified by the thrice-cursed guardian Aegwynn. No daemon could enter it without risking immediate destruction or imprisonment. Allegedly no race born of Azeroth could enter, either, though that ward had already been broken, years ago, by the powerful and duplicitous Illidan Stormrage.

If Kil'Jaden could directly manifest on the planet, he would certainly have the power to break the enchantment- and fairly easily too. For years the warlocks of the Eredar had made meticulous notes of the wards on the tomb and how to break them. This was a hypothetical scenario of course, for if Kil'Jaden could manifest on the planet freely, he would have no reliance on servants for this task. Of the servants left on this world there were perhaps four that Kil'Jaden trusted less than the orc before him. After all the orc had already betrayed him before and may do so again.

Yet, conversely, the orc remained the only servant with the magical knowledge to break the seals or to duel Khadgar somewhat evenly. Worse, Kil'Jaden's intentions had been revealed to the archmage and, if this incursion failed, the might of the Kirin Tor would surely guard the tomb from then on.

Reluctantly, aware of the flawed hand he had been dealt, Kil'Jaden began to explain the nature of the tomb and how to break its seals, silently, to his servant. The daemon did not like how Gul'Dan's smile visibly widened with every passing word, nor the greed that shone clear in his eyes.

Meanwhile, Khadgar continued to prowl the tomb, taunting the warlock with implications of weakness and cowardice. At first Gul'dan, entranced by the power spoken of by his master, paid no heed however after a few moments his greedy, almost lustful countenance turned into a snarl and the orc conjured up a powerful fel fire blast. The face did not match the eyes, which possessed a calculating look. Before Kil'Jaden could protest the warlock unleashed his attack.

It was a blow powerful enough to utterly immolate the archmage- mind, body and soul. Khadgar, or at least the Khadgar of the relevant timeline, sensed the attack. Just as the fire was close enough to touch his neck the archmage use the arcane to freeze the air around him, nullifying the strike. Then, a moment afterwards, the ice block disintegrated into a thousand shards with the archmage utterly unharmed. Gul'dan, however, was not as Kil'Jaden used their connection to inflict agony upon the upstart orc's nerves. The servant would obey, or he would be punished.

Seething, panting from his screams of pain, furious from Khadgar's renewed mockery (for even if the archmage could not see the orc, he could hear the scream of pain and guess its cause) , the warlock seemed, for a moment, on the edge of revolt. Indeed, in a flash timeline spawned from a moment of decision, he _did_ revolt, cursing his benefactor and laying petty grievances bare. Kil'Jaden cast that plane aside as a mortal would an irksome fly.

"Didn't have permission to strike at me? How does the Legion's discipline feel, Gul'dan? Are you ready to be a good pet now?"

The orc's voice was near to bursting with suppressed rage. "Do you believe in fate, human?" he asked.

An odd question. "I know your fate," Khadgar said.

"What about redemption?"

"Redemption? For you? No," Khadgar snorted. Redemption, at least as the Azerothians reckoned the word, laughable to the daemon too, though unlike the archmage he thought he understood where Gul'dan was going with this.

"No, not for me," Gul'dan agreed. "Your kind of redemption bores me. It bored the son of Hellscream, too, from what I hear."

"What do you want? I can't imagine being a puppet appeals to you."

"I want my enemies to burn," Gul'dan said.

"Lovely," Khadgar said.

—YOU OPEN THE WAY AND YOU WILL HAVE YOUR REDEMPTION. YOUR PAST TRANSGRESSION WILL BE FORGIVEN. YOUR ENEMIES WILL BURN. THIS I PROMISE.—

The Orc grinned, though Kil'Jaden knew not what lay behind the smile. Twisting his hands, muttering and weaving complex motions that Kil'Jaden poured into his mind, Gul'dan slowly undid the five seals on the tomb. With a crackled, the light faded from the first as the magic behind it faded from existence.

Unfortunately Khadgar had caught on to Gul'dan's work. Casting his own incarnations, the mage summoned a horde of arcane legions, man-sized, and set them to work probing every corner of the tomb. Gul'Dans time was limited.

Then Khadgar spoke once more, this time with words to pique his curiosity rather than rage.

"So, Gul'dan," he said, "I have to ask—has the Legion told you how you died?"

The Orc grumbled something about that 'not being him' but nevertheless his countenance registered curiosity. This was dangerous. The Orc was, like too many mortals, emotionally melodramatic, fragile. In the past, the daemons and….other Powers-That-Be had used this instability to corrupt uncounted mortals on unnumbered worlds. Yet, if the orc was truly not aware of its past fate, Khadgar may well be able to sabotage the Legion's plans in a manner that his magic had yet failed to do.

—IGNORE HIM.—

"I am" he hissed, still in pain from the previous punishment. His voice was strained, though from repressed anger or the effort of unbinding the daemon could not tell. Another seal broke. Khadgar noticed but still did not fully grasp the significance of it.

The archmage continued his tale, detailing how Gul'dan had abandoned the Horde at the hour of their victory in order to set sail to the Broken Isles. It was a tale woven with a lie, however, as the mage took pains to imply that Gul'Dan had acted on the Legion's orders, rather than his own. Or perhaps it was not a lie, but, rather, was the truth as far as the archmage knew it. Either way, it was a worrying development.

There. Gul'dan broke the third lock with such force that it destroyed the fourth seal as well. Risky, the feedback could have destroyed him, and, in fact, had destroyed him in other visions that arose and were quickly dismissed in the demons mind. At this point, the daemon was beginning to feel a mixture of gratitude and suspicion over Gul'Dan's incredible luck, for none of the multitude of potential discoveries or fatal feedback triggered by ancient failsafes occurred to this Gul'dan, despite it happening with alarming frequency in other versions.

Still such boldness, if it paid off, would be rewarded well.

—WELL DONE. DESTROY THE LAST.—

Gul'Dan hesitated and strained. The last seal was proving particularly irksome. No, not just irksome. Arcane energy was surging into the last seal like water into a newly made sea-side crater.

"Kil'jaeden, what is happening?" Gul'dan whispered. Kil'Jaden ignored him, intent on what was occurring before it.

 _Of course,_ the daemon thought to himself, _Aegywn was known for her arrogance but even the most confident of individuals could conceive of potentialities where their defenses failed, and create fail safes accordingly._

This was deeply problematic. The demonic planners had not prepared for this.

There was worse to come. Kil'Jaden's attention had waned as he considered Aegywn's failsafe, but Khadgar's had not. Rather, he had caught on to Gul'Dan's actions and had been summoning a substantial amount of arcane energy to himself. With a word of power, he unleashed the energy. Gul'dan braced himself but the arcane energy was not molded into a spell of destructive capacity, rather, constructive. A giant wedge, three times the archmage's height, formed in midair. Then he aimed that wedge, whose edge gleamed like sharpened steel, at the floor. Normal metals would not be able to penetrate far into the tomb's floor but one forged of magic itself…

It would dig deep and connect with the magic which the Legion had stored under the tomb 10,000 years ago. Then, they had sought to open a second daemonic portal in the War of the Ancients, only to be foiled by Highborne sorcerers at the climax of the ritual. If the wedge of arcane power connected with that stored magical might, it would cause an explosion and destroy the whole complex along with everything inside. Truly Khadgar's willingness to do anything to win had been underestimated – he would destroy himself if it the act of doing so would foil the Legion's plans.

 _NO!_

Unwittingly, Kil'Jaden sent waves of panic through his mental connection with Gul'Dan however, at this point, he was did not care about the loss of composure. This was it! This was the summation of the Legion's plots since the Third War. If the Legion failed here-if he failed here- than the Legion's invasion would be delayed years, perhaps even decades. The mortals would restore themselves to power, or worse, the other enemies of the Nether would make their move onto the planet.

The wedge slammed into the ground, the Legion of elementals now serving as the force behind it. The Entire chamber heaved. In desperation, Kil'Jaden rescinded his earlier order.

—KILL HIM! KILL HIM NOW, GUL'DAN!—

Gul'dan rose to his feet, letting his black cloak fall from his shoulders. There was no need to hide any longer. He discarded all of his tricks. "I obey, Kil'jaeden," the orc said, raising his hands.

The Orc conjured a wave of fel which met Khadgar's arcane barrier like a volatile tsunami against a stalwart mountainside. The primordial elements collided with a resounding thunderclap that shook the entire tomb and, for all Kil'Jaden knew, the entire island. The effect was, for a moment, blinding to the demon lord and when his vision returned multiple visions appeared before him as if he were a staggered, punch drunk warrior. Frenzily, he cast aside the useless apparitions, trying to direct all his focus onto the one possibility made important. Once again his sight could not help tocatch glimpses of the other variations .

Before him the Gul'dan's shield shattered with the sound of breaking glass however, in most potentialities, the archmage failed to follow-up. No, not failed, chose not to. His strategy was shifting.

Gul'dan retaliated with fire and fury which in turn were met by disciplined shields and counterspells. The Archmage limited his offensive thrusts, though did not entirely cease them. In one eventuality, a stalagcite fell through a portal right through another one on Gul'dan's head, crushing the orc. However, across the broad spectrum of visions a stalemate settled in, as Khadgar contently focused on protecting himself and the arcane elementals.

Of course…the archmage's objectives had changed. No longer did he focus on destroying the warlock instead, he correctly perceived that denying the Legion the tomb was a more important task and, seemingly, he was willing to die to carry that out. Even as Khadgar deflected one spell after another the elementals raised the magical wedge one more and drove it through the floor. The whole tomb quaked and the daemon instinctively knew it would take only a few more blows to arrive at the Legion's reservoir.

Gul'dan recognized this as well.

"Kil'jaeden," Gul'dan whispered, "I need the tomb's power."

Kil'Jaden's response was instinctive.

—NO.—

"There is one seal left, and it is being protected! I cannot break it and kill him!" Gul'dan seemed to say those words with visible pain, as if the act of admitting a limitation harmed him. "He has had decades to study me. He can hold me off for too long."

The seal was weakened now, enough for Kil'Jaden to direct some of the energy below. It was possible for him to direct it to the orc however he knew, instinctively, what would happen.

—YOU WILL BETRAY ME.—

Gul'dan forced more power into his attacks. Khadgar wavered but held firm. Gul'dan growled in frustration. "Khadgar will destroy the tomb. The Legion will never have a chance to use this place again. Trust that I want to see this fool dead, or trust that all of your plans will burn."

Sweat dripped down Khadgar's face. "I forgot to finish my story," he said. "When you entered the Tomb of Sargeras, you died in an ambush."

Kil'Jaden wavered, seeking, vainly, to divine the course of action ahead of him. But visions had never been his purview, he thought hatefully to himself; it was always the domain of that _**damned traitor**_. He could not see the future clearly, only guess it based on current portents. Every portent, every scrap of knowledge Kil'Jaden had on Gul'dan suggested betrayal was inevitable if he handed over the power. Yet, if he did not Khadgar would destroy the tomb…or his allies would come to defeat the warlock. Already, in the corner of his mind, he could sense another appear at the tomb's entrance.

It was a choice between a 5% probability and a 100% certainty. With reluctance, Kil'Jaden made his decision even as Khadgar finished his story, at the worse possible moment.

"The other Gul'dan did not die by the Alliance's hands, nor by the Horde that he betrayed," Khadgar said. Gul'dan could not help but listen to him. "He entered the tomb and was torn limb from limb by demons. I suppose the Burning Legion had no more use for him."

The die was cast. Like water pouring down into a whirlpool, the hidden reservoir of Legion power, enough to breach the divide between worlds, between dimensions and realities, fell into Gul'Dan's hands. The Orc swelled with borrowed power, fel energy radiating from his form like a lightning rod conducting electricity. With an upraised hand, he shattered the remaining seal like it was an insect in his grasp. Then, with another, he unleashed a tsunami of fel energy that filled the room as if the ocean itself was pouring in. The arcane elementals and their wedge evaporated instantly and only the most powerful offensive spell Khadgar had allowed him to survive, immobile, rocking through an ocean of fel like a pebble in a hurricane.

Gul'dan struggled to break it, and in time he could have, as shown in alternate panes. However the orc always was too impatient. Frustrated, the warlock cast him through one of the openings of the tomb and then collapsed it on top of the archmage.

Gul'dan stood there, basking in glory and long sought power. He made no effort to direct the energy to the portal.

Dreadful and frustrated, Kil'Jaden spoke through their mental link

—YOU MADE A PACT, GUL'DAN. FINISH YOUR TASK. OPEN THE WAY FOR US.—

Gul'dan took a deep breath, clearly savoring the moment. No other pane, no other potentiality arose from when he next spoke. Possibilities narrowed down to one for, in that moment, Gul'dan responded in a manner that reached to the heart of his character.

"No, Kil'jaeden," he replied. "I will not.

Pebbles and debris still dropped from the ceiling, making long clangs as they hit the floor. For long moments, they were the only sound around.

Kil'jaeden was quiet. Gul'dan was not.

"I don't believe Khadgar was lying," the orc said, his tone eerily calm. "The other one. The other Gul'dan. He died here at the Legion's hands, yes?"

Kil'Jaden saw no need to lie, no need to evade anymore.

—YES, HE DID.—

Gul'dan lowered his head. "So. The Burning Legion does not honor its pacts. There was always a part of me that believed our arrangement would not last," he said.

Kil'Jaden put in as much disapproval into his return as possible. Gul'Dan was throwing away both his potential and the Legion's opportunity for nothing more than spite and petty delusions of power.

—THAT IS BECAUSE YOU ARE A FOOL. AS MUCH NOW AS THEN.—

Gul'dan laughed.

"A forewarned fool, at least," he said.

But Kil'jaeden was not done.

—I WAS THERE WHEN YOU FIRST BOUND YOURSELF TO US. FALSE AMBITION HAS ALWAYS POISONED YOUR MIND, GUL'DAN.—

Anger pierced Gul'dan's contentment. "False?" He used his new strength to reach through his link with Kil'jaeden. He saw the eredar's face. "You planned to discard me from the beginning."

Kil'jaeden's blazing eyes met Gul'dan's without blinking.

—NO, GUL'DAN. WE TEMPT THE WEAK WITH TRINKETS AND FLEETING REWARDS. WE PROMISED YOU MUCH, MUCH MORE.—

It was the absolute truth. For all his flaws, for all his focus on petty spite and his pauper's ambition, Gul'Dan did have true potential. He had an internal drive that matched any in the Legion, a genuine aptitude for fel magic, and a certain cunning that would serve well in the conquest of the remaining worlds.

Gul'dan sneered. "Bigger bait for a bigger fish. But you would have gutted me all the same."

—YOU DIED BECAUSE YOU BETRAYED US. YOU WERE MEANT TO HELP MY HORDE EXTERMINATE ALL RESISTANCE ON THIS WORLD. YET AT THE MOMENT OF TRUTH, YOU ABANDONED THEM. YOU SPLIT THEIR ARMIES TO CLAIM THIS PLACE. OUR PLANS CAME TO NOTHING. YOU EARNED YOUR FATE.—

"That was not me!" Gul'dan roared, fury causing spittle to fly from his mouth which burned into the stone floor, his eyes widened with maddening exasperation. Still, the orc persisted in his false beliefs.

—BETRAYAL IS IN YOUR NATURE. I DRAGGED YOU HERE BY THE SCRUFF OF YOUR NECK BECAUSE YOU ARE STILL TOO FOOLISH TO UNDERSTAND YOUR FULL POTENTIAL. EVEN NOW, YOU BELIEVE THE POWER YOU HOLD IS SIGNIFICANT. YOU LACK VISION.—

Kil'Jaden stood up from his throne of polished crystals and metal- a memorabilia from old Argus. He looked down on his rebellious servant with a father's disappointment.

—I HAD HOPED YOU WOULD HAVE GREATER VISION THAN YOUR OTHER SELF. PERHAPS YOU STILL WILL.—

"I'm afraid you're about to be disappointed again, master," Gul'dan said. "I see no reason to overcome my false ambition."

Kil'jaeden leaned forward. The air seemed to quake.

—FROM THE BEGINNING, YOU BELIEVED YOU WERE DESTINED FOR POWER. YOU ARE. YOU ALSO BELIEVED YOU WERE DESTINED TO BE YOUR OWN MASTER.—

His next words thundered with finality.

—THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN.—

"No?" Gul'dan said softly. "Given the circumstances—"

Kil'Jaden cut him off.

—EVERY CREATURE SERVES A MASTER. EVEN I. THAT IS THE CHOICE OF ALL: SERVE ANOTHER, OR DIE ALONE.—

Gul'dan was unmoved. "Perhaps you will bow to me one day, Deceiver," he said. Kil'Jaden felt no need to respond to that, confident in the knowledge that even the power of the tomb paled before his own. Instead, he spoke of that which Gul'dan so often overlooked- long term planning.

—HOW FAR CAN YOU GO? HOW MANY WORLDS CAN YOU RULE? THE POWER YOU HOLD WILL NOT LAST FOREVER. YOU ARE NOTHING BEFORE THE LEGION.—

"We shall see."

—SERVITUDE IS NOT IMPRISONMENT. YOU WILL SERVE ME. OTHERS WILL SERVE YOU. IMAGINE BEING THE MASTER OF SO MANY. IMAGINE THE RANKS OF THE LEGION AT YOUR COMMAND. IMAGINE WHAT YOU WILL BURN FOR US.—

Gul'dan regarded Kil'jaeden with skepticism. Kil'jaeden sensed distance growing between them.

—ENOUGH, GUL'DAN. MAKE YOUR CHOICE. YOU CAN PROVE YOURSELF LOYAL. RETURN YOUR POWER TO THE PORTAL, AND THE WAY WILL OPEN. OR YOU CAN BETRAY US YET AGAIN. YOUR ONLY SATISFACTION BEFORE WE DESTROY YOU WILL BE MEANINGLESS VENGEANCE ON INSIGNIFICANT MORTALS.—

The eredar offered a parting thought.

—KNOW THIS: YOU CAN CALL ME "DECEIVER," BUT I DID NOT LIE TO YOU. NOT ONCE. NOT IN THIS WORLD, AND NOT IN YOURS.—

With that, Kil'jaeden pushed Gul'dan's mind away, like a fishing line cast out to sea. But not severed.

With an exasperated sigh, Kil'Jaden returned to his throne. He was not about to give up on his servant, not yet, but as ever his time was limited. He had invested enough of it into Gul'dan; now there were conquests to monitor. With a gesture, he activated his warmap, which allowed him to view the Legion's active conquests across space and time. Right now billions of conflicts were fought across the varied realities; many of which were unnecessary to the overall vision. In his mind's eye he could see them, faint clusters of vast lights, each branching off each other until they narrowed into a central branch. Only this river among tributaries was truly important. He narrowed his focus onto that realm.

There were millions of conflicts across the span of the universe. Many were foregone conclusions, the attacks of small Legion expeditions on worlds with unevolved intelligent life or life forms that had not yet developed the illusions of civilization. A few were vast invasions of exterminations, against worlds with blossoming civilizations yet untamed. There were so few of them now, when Kil'Jaden had started he could find millions per galactic cluster, like a vast untended garden that had been filled with weeds and undesirable plants. Now, a dozen, maybe two, per cluster in a universe of tens of thousands of such groupings.

Kil'Jaden focused on a few, the magic of the battle map allowing him to zoom from a universe to planet side to ground level in mere moments. He focused on a few conflicts that had earlier caught his interest, for those were wars in which the Legion was, currently, losing. At least in direct combat.

On a world covered by a great world jungle, the legion invaded from a thousand points, blemishing the surface like pox-sores on the diseased. Their entry was not uncontested, though this world possessed no great civilization and only the most primitive of sapient societies. Instead, the wildlife itself- bulging hammerhead monstrosities, vaguely felinid panther-like creatures, vertebrae whose legs stood over the treetops- attacked in vast waves, their strangely coordinated thrusts crushing legion felguards and retreating before Legion sorcerors and artillery could bring their arsenals fully to bear. Hulking sapients, vaguely draenei in shape and ocean blue complexion but taller, more agile and with longer tails, loped alongside the beasts, striking at the broken ranks and dueling evenly, in strength, with the felguard. Overhead the skies were filled with these blue natives riding on vast reptilian flyers dueling alongside thousands of legion felbats and a dozen capital cruisers.

Kil'Jaden considered the planet, with its unnatural coordination among species and uncanny knowledge of the weakpoints in the Legion bases. The answer to the question came, almost intuitively, to the daemon lord, for in assaulting the span of creation there were few possibilities yet unknown to him. The world itself was the coordinator and commander, and even now he could feel its psychic energy creating a peripheral hive mind. In contrast to the god-mind of a titan, it was a vast neural network composed of the sums of innumerable parts.

Incredibly, the living planet seemed poised to throw back the invaders. Yet Kil'Jaden cared not, for the battle had long been won.

Fel. The magic and blood of daemons. Wherever a daemon walks, bleeds or uses magic, fel spreads like maggots on a corpse. Already, tens of thousands of daemons had died, perished, and their life blood had seeped into the earth causing corruption and madness. Legion sorcerers had fueled this onset, using magical rituals and devices to spread their deadly craft like a gardener would water. It would spread through the roots of thirsting plants and hungry gullets of victorious monsters. Like a plague they, in turn, would spread their infection to others. The neural network would only serve to amplify the corruption across the psychic field and soon enough the world would be beset by uncontrollable madness. The Legion would mop up what was left.

As he watched, he felt once more the tug of communication from his errant disciple. Gul'dan was reaching out, regretting his burst of independence. Kil'Jaden was wise to the concerns of mortals and knew that the reconciliation attempts came not from a true desire to rebuild bridges, but more likely from his own fear and apprehension. Doubtless, he found the mortals of Azxoerth more formidable than he reckoned, realizing at last what the overwhelming majority of the Legion could not. The daemon lord briefly assessed the origin of the telepathic communication before casting the beleaguered Gul'dan aside, like a fisherman dissatisfied with his catch. In only pane was Gul'dan truly important and it was not that one.

He zoomed out from the doomed living world, refocusing instead on a collection of highlights spanning a couple dozen planets of a galaxy. A stellar empire, one of the few left for Kil'Jaden had been quite meticulous in targeting those first. Vision sped further in, until the daemon could see the conflicts below. Legions of daemons, each battle group in the tens of thousands strong, battled a flightless avian-like race in the gutted corpse of one of their metal metropolises. Alien weaponry, firing solid slug projectiles at stupendous speed, carved through daemon armor like butchers blade's through mortal guts. Tanks taller than the largest elekk hovered above the ground firing bolts of such speed that they liquefied all those that passed in close proximity of the projectile trajectory.

Yet the daemons marched on, heedless of their causalities and even mocking of the mortal's efforts. What worth did the mangled body or torn flesh hold, when the soul was eternal? A thousand could perish for every mortal finally dragged down and still the weight of worth would be in the Legion's favor. Moreover, the Legion did not intend to win this conflict on the battlefield. The offer of immortality had ever been proven enticing to those that sought to extend their own lifespans. Some acceded to the siren's call without much prompt from the denizens of the nether, for rotten hearts festered like spiritual tumors, while others simply required a little…push.

Cults had spread like pestilence among the unwashed and unclean. Well placed commanders, enticed by daemonic dreams, gave contradictory orders or commandments which put their men into great peril. Saboteurs infiltrated infrastructure and brought it crumbling down while Legion assassins, guided by the whisperings of hidden cultists, stalked the enemy high command. As with so many other mortal civilizations they would fall from within if they could not be conquered throughout.

Outside of Kil'Jaden's vision, he felt his lure, his remaining connection to Gul'dan, shake. Through that spiritual connection, held distant but not entirely severed, he felt his wayward disciple's mood change fully from jubilance to apprehension and fear. This time it was the Gul'dan of the central timeframe who felt such wariness. Like a fisherman who knew his One Great Catch was imminent, Kil'Jaden put a bit more focus onto maintaining the coherency of the connection as his physical vision shifted, once more, to a new warzone.

Kil"jaden grimaced as he glanced at the planet before him. Where the others had been beset by the plague of mortal life, this planet had an entirely different sort of corruption. From pole to pole, the planet was covered by overlapping links of shadowy, incandescent tendrils all of which led to seven amorphous masses that clung to the planet's body like giant pustules. This was the domain of the old ones and madness was its name. Here the soldiers of the Legion fought, for the first time, not with fearless glee but with concerned apprehension and reluctance.

Along the surface battlegroups of legion soldiers, in the hundreds of thousands, fought against hordes of gibbering flesh-monsters and crazed chanting mortals - the sad, sorry remnants of those who had previously called this world home. Fel fire clashed with the essence of the Void in sparks of twilight that illuminated the surface of the planet. Portals of daemonic reserves met with rifts of the Void, who served the same purpose, each spilling forth unending tides of reinforcements onto the planet. Legion capital ships glassed whole segments of the planet only to be seized and crushed in the tentacles of unseen monsters who had not yet managed to achieve a full foothold in the mortal realm. Fel infusions and daemonic whispers of temptation were laughed at and cast aside with mockery by the void-maddened legions below, while those of the Burning Crusade fell in troubling numbers to supreme madness.

When Sargeras first spoke to Archimonde and Kil'Jaden about the power of the Void, Kil'Jaden had been skeptical, in the least. What could a bunch of shadows, fearful of the light, hold to the infinite might of the Burning Legion? Now, he knew better. This was the _true_ enemy of the Legion and all their efforts, all their destruction, had been spent to ensure they could not inherit creation, for a burnt, lifeless universe was empathetically better than one in their thrall.

Kil'Jaden glanced upon the single eye of one of the pustules, an organ as large as the mightiest city on Azeroth. As he watched, it blinked.

Then the lure shook and Kil'Jaden paid no more heed to the aberration that writhed in his physical sight. Gul'Dan had returned the power that was stolen! Like a Fisherman of Old Argus who had, at last, achieved his grand catch, Kil'Jaden greedily reeled in the returned magical reservoir, eager to open the path to Azeroth, the _True_ Azeroth- the crown jewel of creation- at last! Already his army of daemons waited, practically (or, in some cases, literally) salivating for the chance to consume the titan world. Kil'Jaden reached out and, for the first time in ages, proclaimed his sincere gratitude towards his now returned servant. Already the portal was forming, as Kil'Jaden weaved a long prepared spell that summoned the cross-dimensional gateway into existence. Hot, fel-infused air- that of Argus itself- rushed into the chamber.

—WELL DONE, GUL'DAN. YOU DO INDEED HAVE THE VISION THA-

Kil'jaden's communication halted abruptly, as the remaining magical reservoir, mere inches from his metaphorical fingers, came to a complete standstill. He extended his mind further, only for another power, to pull it out of his reach. Beyond fury, Kil'jaden moved to admonish servant for the treachery and promise a eternity of cruel retribution only to stop short when he saw the orc's expression register one of confusion and shock. In incredulity now, Kil'Jaden looked past Gul'dan to the two mortals who the orc had clashed with, only to see the confusion was unanimous.

"Master, what is happening?"

Kil'Jaden cursed, all calm countenance gone. He reached out with greater power, a greater tug to reel his catch in at last. The opposing force buckled, initially, before his pressure. In his tug Kil'Jaden felt a measure of his foe and grinned, for no servant of the Void had ever managed to overpower the daemon lord in a contest of direct strength.

And then the opposing force returned the tug, tenfold. This time the tug came not from Azeroth but from the nascent formed portal itself! This time he felt not only the faint tug of shadows but, another force, another player, wielding an unknown magic- wilder, livelier and _more chaotic_ than the shadows it stood in alliance with.

Kil'Jaden's mental grasp slipped as he lost not only his catch but his instrument. Before the daemon could recover, this unseen interloper pulled all that magic into the portal. The air shimmered, the composition changed, and Kil'Jaden could hear the frustrated howls of the daemon army of Argus. Cold air, tinged with a magic unfamiliar to the daemon, blasted the tomb. Before the stunned daemon could reach out to help him, the unknown force seized ahold of Gul'dan and wrenched him into the portal.

The gateway shimmered a final time before settling still, an unwanted pathway now open.

For many long moments- whole hours by the mortal timeframe- Kil'Jaden sat rock still, stunned and bewildered and, for the first time in a long time, a little stricken. In the entire universe, only Sargeras could have overpowered him so easily. Neither Naaru nor servant of Void- even the so-called 'Old Gods' could have outmatched him magically in such a manner. The Titans and Void Gods perhaps could have, but the former were long gone and the latter could not manifest but faint apparitions of themselves.

Kil'Jaden glanced through the portal and saw lands that were not immediately recognizable. Then again, Kil'Jaden had gazed upon literally millions of mortal worlds in his tenure and knew he could be forgiven for forgetting one or two. Still, the magic was unfamiliar which was a more concerning detail.

Kil'Jaden, who was a master of the arcane first before moving to fel, had made it a point to learn all the varied magics of the universe. From an academic perspective mostly, as fel did not mix well with many other fields of magic. He had studied the many mysteries of the Void, sneered at the sanctimonious light, mastered the magic of death and looked down, contemptuously , on the limited magics of the elements and life. Minor lores existed of course, for mortals can and did invent surprising new techniques, but none- so far- had been able to compete with the magic of the Twisting Nether. This planet's energy, however, had.

Kil'Jaden turned his attention to his war map once more, intent on using it to view the world before him. At the moment, however, the vision was still fixed upon the malignant world of the Void. The fighting on the corrupted planet had petered out, the Legion assaults fading before the Void onslaught. As Kil'Jaden prepared to turn off the viewer in frustration he glanced, once more, at the giant pustule's enormous eye. It blinked at him.

AN: This was one of the harder stories to write, as I had to write it from Kil'Jaden's cosmic level. To provide some background, in Warcraft the main timeline are described as a river that flows ever onwards. From this river emerges countless tributaries, creeks and and lakes- the result of choices and possibilities branching off from the main universe. However, without continued interaction from the main universe, these alternate timelines with eventually die and fade into nothing.

To make this a bit more confusing, the realm of the daemons-the Twisting Nether- is said to transcend all timelines and be the same throughout. Thus they can see every alternate version of someone, every possibility. Doubtless, this infinite variety is probably why many daemons think mortals are made.

Worm1 As described in the message, there are actually hints of other underground civilizations that either once or might have existed. The insect empire of Orcslayer, the empire of Worms referenced in Malus Darkblade novels, a second underground civilization referenced in the AB, and some brief background lore in Tamurkhan.

Also you are right about the glands thing. My mistake

MadFrog2000 Thank you sir! Rest assured we will be seeing more of Gul'dan soon!

Dios You got it!

True Skull Actually this scene was part of the plan, its just what came after that was not!


	5. Posterity

" _In an age where everyone is a celebrity; no one is. " – Unknown Adventurer_

Posterity

My name is Stephen Rivers and this is my new journal. Why am I writing this, you ask? My response, now and as it was for my previous journals: for posterity.

It was my grandfather who provided the inspiration. His journals of living through the First and Second Horde Wars have already entered the annals of many a historical record. Gramps gave the world the perspective of the average soldier, rather than the King, and now I'll give Azeroth that of the apprentice, rather than the archmage. I'll read this to my grandchildren just as he did to me and my sis, before the dreadful Scourge claimed him and nana. And, if my stories are popular enough like Aramar Thorne, perhaps other can read them as well.

Besides, I want to be remembered like he was. It is harder now. I live in an age where legions of heroes do heroic things daily, across entire worlds. Every single day new champions are heralded in the papers and by the archmagi to the point where I can honestly can't remember individual names anymore. It's all a collective blur, now.

By my reckoning, writers now have a greater chance of becoming famous than champions.

I begin my first entry here with exciting news- I have been selected to undertake a secret mission by the Kirin Tor, a secret mission handed to my teacher Archmage Arcantium by the council itself! My teacher has told me few details, only that it would offer a "out-of-this-world" learning experience! Sure sounds cryptic!

More later

New World

I can hardly contain my excitement!

When I was first told the assignment, I thought perhaps we would be heading for an archaeological expedition to Outland, where rumor has it the birdmen of that land once ruled a vast, magical empire. Or perhaps travel through time to the Draenor of the past, where we could meet the Arrakkoa in person. A High Arrakkoa especially, back in the days where their civilization still endured and Draenor hadn't yet become whatever weird thing Outland is.

The actual assignment is far better than that.

It's not Outland nor its time-crossed historical cousin- it's a whole new world unlike any the Kirin Tor has ever seen! It is unlike any even the archmages have ever seen and even master Arcantium runs around like an exhilarated first year apprentice!

There was a troubling spot though.

The commander of this expedition, a stern-faced man everyone calls 'Archmage Arclock", does not seem to approve of our presence. "Too dangerous' and various other phrases we have heard a thousand times from those nannies among the Kirin Tor. Does this Archmage not realize what planet we live on? Azeroth has been 'too dangerous' for decades!

I may be an apprentice but I've done my fair share of 'field studies'. I burned a few corpses in Northrend that had issue with the whole 'staying in the ground' , "stop moving" and "stop trying to eat the living" aspects of being dead.

Anyway I think he and master Arcantium had a row or something. They placed a ward over their tent so we couldn't listen in but they stayed in there for almost an hour and Arcantium left looking upset. I hope this doesn't forebode a split or something.

More later

Tent Town

Dalaran, unlike Stormwind, does not use poorly paid peasants to set up their base camps. Their name for peasant is 'apprentice' .

It was a grueling days' work, but, to the credit of our instructors, they did at least let us use magic.

The Archmages did not participate, of course. Instead they, and a couple magi assistants, huddled around that gateway to another realm- what we have started to call the "Frozen Portal" -with their toys and instruments, gibbering excitably to one another. The details are still unknown to us lowly apprentices but, from what I can pick up, this world apparently has a different 'system' than Azeroth or Outland or even weird time travel Draenor had.

Unfortunately, they went into Arclock's warded tent before I could pick up anything further.

At least we finished the camp today. There are about fifty different tents in our little town, arrayed in a rather dull rectangle. Like the lording nobles of Old Lordaeron, all the archmages and magi get tents to themselves, leaving adepts to be paired two to a tent and apprentices grouped in even greater numbers. It is a bit claustrophobic in here, honestly, and about as much privacy as a Violet Hold cage.

The light is keeping my tent-mates up and now I must sleep.

More Later

Hot Alarm

Archmage Arclock seems to be almost incessantly annoyed by virtually everything. I mean he is clearly still upset that we ( the apprentices) are here, so that is already known, but to be fair to the old man there is quite a bit that seems genuinely aggravating.

Take the other night. You remember how I said that the adepts were in pairs, right? Well, it turns out that might not have been the best idea. Or at least the idea of allowing the adepts themselves to choose the pairs was.

It was Charmine Newbery and Hulbert Smith who paired with one another, making sure to arrange the pairing with Arclock rather than Master Arcantium. The latter knows full well about their steamy relationship while the former, obviously, did not.

Now this probably wouldn't have been an issue if Arclock hadn't been of the paranoid sort. Turns out, without telling anyone, he put anti-assassin wards all over the camp. From the textbook of Magical Defensive Spells & Wards, Page 381 :

 _"...Andersen's Anti-Assassin Wards, or AAAWs for short, use an advanced sound-amplification mechanism to alert all nearby to the assassin's activities by ruining his or her greatest advantage: stealth. Operating under the assumption that an assassin would seek to limit the amount of noise they produce, the AAAW institutes a 'sound threshold' for the entire area under its purview. Those sounds in the area that the ward deemed 'unusual' are registered and judged by two further criteria : is the sound 'suspiciously' below the threshold, i.e. like the ripple of skin as a blade crosses the throat, and is the sound one where tones of passion can clearly be detected, akin to the desperate gurgles or moans of a victim as they try to staunch the flow of blood._

 _If both criteria are met, the ward will give off a high-pitched alarm, a piercing scream that can't help but draw the notice of any in the immediate vicinity...up to ten miles. "_

Personally, I think the charm is a bit excessive. Wouldn't it make more sense for the ward to silently alert all Kirin Tor in the vicinity? That way the assassin would still be detected AND the assassin would not know that he was detected. Far be it from me to question the idiosyncrasies of a Kirin Tor Archmage though. Anyway...

At roughly 1:00am in the morning, every single soul in the camp was violently awakened by the screams of what we could only guess were the damned. Instinctively, we reached for our wands and staves, words of magic on our lips.

By the time we apprentices had exited our tent the magi and archmagi of the Kirin Tor were already running about, advancing upon the source of the sound- the Newbery-Smith tent- with a grim composure and clutched staffs, defensive spells already swirling around their forms. Archmage Arclock was first to the fray, his staff held outstretched like a spear. Cautiously, he pulled back the flap...

And then recoiled back, sputtering all the way. As I think about it now, it is immensely humorous but at the time it was extremely scary. We - the apprentices- were a bit terrified, honestly. We thought the Archmage had seen something so gory as to shock even a grizzled veteran like him speechless! Other Kirin Tor pulled the flap back, eager to help, only for their faces to turn the same sort of crimson.

Finally, the Archmage regained his voice. It was angry. He demanded Char and Hulbert come out of the tent...after they had put their clothes back on.

Gradually, we, the apprentices came to realize what had happened. It seemed that it hadn't been the moans of the dying that set the alarms off- it was the moans of something else!

My face still hurts from holding in the laughter! I had to turn my head when Arclock looked over at me- I certainly didn't want to share the lovers' inevitable punishment!

But the tale got stranger still. A third, miniature figure wandered from the steamy interior of the adept's tent: Trish Whizzlegadget. The gnomish engineer, dressed only in boxers and a cloth shirt, was rubbing the back of her head in embarrassment. Arclock began to sputter again

"Trish, what are _were_ you doing in there!?"

Trish, her own face as red as a watermelon, mumbled aloud

'Scientific observation….. and experimentation."

More Later

The Midnight Walk

It turns out the steamy romance was not the only exciting event that occurred last night.

Before I begin this journal's subject, some background needs to be described. First, as a disclaimer to my younger get, I have not yet been to what the Kirin Tor here are calling the 'Frozen Portal'. Not yet, anyway. But I have heard others speak of it and espied the portal from afar. It is a truly vast gateway, though not quite as large as the Dark Portal was said to be. Summoner Wildsong has used her elemental to clear a path that started narrow but gradually widened on the way out, for much rubble had surrounded it. For all around the portal stood a massive temple, a tremendous complex that was once the greatest religious structure in all of the ancient Kaldorei Empire.

Though Kirin Tor assault squads had entered the ruins previously and seared every trace of daemon from the complex, and were courteous enough to provide magical lighting throughout the structure for future incursions, they were not as thorough with treasure. Rumor has it that whole tank loads still existed down there, enough to cause a goblin to swoon and feint. Even barring the god the Tomb was once the main Temple of Elune for the entire Kaldorei Empire, and doubtless priceless artifacts to Azeroth's mightiest empire could be found below.

Naturally, this excites fortune seekers from virtually everywhere. Already the adventurers- Gneeli, Fabiano, and Kindrin (sometimes called 'Kini' for short)- have made at least four forays down there.

Arclock doesn't seem to mind that they do so. The one time I asked he spoke of their deeds in Draenor and Pandaria. If even half of what he said is true about what the trio did to Xanzith the Everlasting and the Iron Horde 31st Siege Brigade, then I would imagine that anything foul that still lurks below the temple would run in fear of them, rather than vice versa.

However, he does seem to mind when we go off to try to explore. A lot. We found that out when Oliver Nortion took a midnight walk in the tunnels below, emerging to an angry reception at dawn.

I can still hear the row between Arclock and Arcantium, or at least a passing few words before they took their conversation behind a ward. The words "invaluable learning experience", "hands-on assignments" and "possible promotion" were heard from master Arcantium's mouth; the words "day-care" , "sheer recklessness" and 'rutting mammals' were spoken from Arclock's .

That Arclock thinks we are infants who need constant holding is immensely insulting. We may not be champions like Gneeli ,Fab and Kindri but none of us are without experience. I mean for the Light's sake we are not coddled students who never put down the quill to cast an arcane bolt! We have all had…'hands- on' experience at some point or another. I myself have put down at least a dozen Scourge ghouls!

Arclock certainly shouldn't judge us based on that Oliver Norton kid. He's always been a bit weird. Anti-social, even. He sits alone at lunch and makes the foulest jokes when he does talk. I see him laugh at times, randomly. Rumor has it he hears voices or something. Also he looks funny and is as big and lumpy as any stereotypical peasant.

His oddity showed today as well. Ever since he returned from the catacombs underneath the temple he has been as white as a sheet and as rigid as a board. When another apprentice finally asked what a matter is, Oliver complained of shadows that seemed to follow him, of trailing whispers that hinged with tangible mal-intent and a terrifying aura of, what he called, 'overwhelming, undeniable hate and voracious hunger".

He is a nutter, who should never have been allowed on this expedition but for the pity of Arcantium, who for some reason believes he has 'potential'. At the very least Norton, as punishment, has been assigned an extra workload by Arclock putting up remaining tents, setting up wards (under the supervision of a still-embarrassed Trish) and conjuring up food. Less work or the rest of us!

However, his panic episode will doubtless make it harder for our group to do some of our own searching of the ruins below. Oh, I haven't written of that yet, have I?

Synopsis time! My roommates Dane, Gloria, Labink and I have been whispering since we got here about going on a midnight incursion of our own. Doubtless with our magical tracing spells we could find all sorts of treasure and perhaps even a mystical artifact of the old Kaldorei Empire. Though Arclock's curfew makes sneaking out harder we have been brainstorming ideas on how to bypass his rules.

Any artifacts seized could sell a hefty price on the market. Or, if something seems particularly 'sacred' I'd imagine the Kaldorei would be sufficiently grateful for the gift. In this manner, I (and the others) can start our own legends just like Brann Bronzebeard and his protégée Harrison Jones. Admittedly Archaeology is not the most glamorous of fields but hey, we got to start somewhere!

More later

Missing Khadgar

In writing this I want to emphasize that I fully believe Arclock is a good man. He is empathetic and intelligent and his mastery of magic certainly cannot be denied. Without a doubt he is a very capable Archmage. And yet, I do not consider him a good leader.

He is a 'nanny leader', too cautious, and too easily frustrated when his peers don't follow his orders. We are the Kirin Tor- free spirit, thought and will are very much encouraged (within limits i.e. no necromancy). Over the last few days I have seen him engage in too many arguments with his peers Archmages Arcantium and Trant, while getting frustrated with all those who he sees as subordinates who are not playing to his desires for caution.

I really wish Khadgar was the leader of the expedition. Khadgar is a legend across three worlds and he probably has more statues to his name By every unofficial account I have read, by every whisper I have heard, Khadgar is probably crazy but immensely fun to be around. Except with the puns.

Of course we have all heard the rumors. Allegedly, Khadgar WAS supposed to be the leader of this expedition yet was pulled off by the rest of the council. Supposedly, Jaina and the others are concerned about Khadgar's health and, to be fair, the man has lived a rough life, the details of which can already be found across a dozen biographies. I wonder, has he ever known peace in his entire adult life?

Some of the rumors though are, simply put, insane. Khadgar is the slayer of daemons and, as the student of the possessed Medvih, knows better than anyone the risks of fel magic. The rumors of him dabbling in it during the Draenor campaign seem like malicious hearsay to me. Just as the rumors of him risking lives, of inadvertently getting his chief assistant corrupted, of his obsessive drive putting everyone at risk and dreadful puns.

Okay, maybe that last one has a ring of truth. I do still remember that speech at the previous year's graduation ceremony….

Still, I'd take Khadgar terrible PUNishments over Arclock's …'nannyism' .

The Lure of Adventure

Camp and necessary equipment has been completely set up, warded, and alarms have been placed all over the island in case someone else (nearby Vyrkul) attempt to make landfall, though I am by a gossiping adept told they don't do that much. Allegedly, they believe this island to be cursed.

All that is done and Arclock still won't let us near the portal. So far, only the Archmages and the full-fledged magi are allowed to make direct observations and, if the gossip I hear is correct, even they are not allowed through the gate. So far, the only entities he has allowed through are elemental scouts.

The main draw of this expedition and he won't even let us see it up close! It's like he views the portal as a particularly interesting snow globe or something rather than a test subject to be probed and experimented. At least it is not just my fellow eager apprentices that are disgruntled – it's the archmages and other magi too. I hear Trant and Arcantium and Wildsong and the others debate him at times, sometimes even giving the archmage dirty looks when they think he isn't looking. That said, they seem to be more patient than we are.

Another has seen fit to wander off in the accompanying temple, though this time it was a magi-invoker by the name of Sherwin Garside. Midnight strolls are apparently popular among even the elite of our organization. He emerged at dawn to the same pissed off reception that greeted Norton. Evidently, none but the adventurers or archmages have the authority to head down below- and the former only because Arclock's command over them is ….limited.

I envy their free agency. Perhaps that will be my career calling….after I pass magi training.

Anyway, the magi clearly did not expect Arclock's harsh reaction, evidently considering himself above the rules of us peasants- I mean apprentices. Oddly, he seemed shaken up a bit even before the Archmage found him, and panting too. Evidently he had been running. When asked about his pale complexion, Sherwin claimed to be spooked by….something, a presence, within the tomb.

Sherwin said he did not hear whispers or see red eyes, but he still could feel ….something, behind him. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and indeed it was still standing straight even when we discovered him. Yet, whenever he looked back he would see nothing. Finally, the mage was significantly spooked enough to abandon their midnight stroll and retrace his steps back to the tomb's opening. It was within the last couple hundred meters prior to the surface that he looked down, using the ambient lighting of the tomb to glance at his shadow.

Sherwin claimed the shadow was not his own. It was several times longer than his body and much bulkier. But perhaps the creepiest aspect was when the magi glanced at the shadows of his own feet. They were cloven, like the hoofs of daemons.

That was when the mage booked it to the entrance, fleeing like a scared apprentice.

Personally, I think he is lying. I have spoken to the adventurers over lunch and they have had no fearful encounters down below, even when they separated to look for treasure and artifacts. Kindri and Gneeli scoffed at the notion of daemons in the dark below, claiming that after Draenor, they would have an instinctive sense over any Burning Legion servant. I noticed Fabiano's brow furrowed during the exchange. When I asked he spoke slowly in reply.

While in his account the man did not claim to see a daemon, or anything daemonlike, there came a point in his journey below, when he was alone, where the shadows appeared almost…hesitant to part before his light. Such an occasion lasted only a moment however before a second burst overwhelmed the shadow, as if its consistency had just left. Hayes was of the opinion a ghost or two that were missed in the initial sweeps of the Kirin Tor might still lurk below.

Personally, I believe the adventurers over the magi. Unlike most in the expedition, they had had active experience against the Legion and, if one of their ilk was present, than I am confident the champions of Azeroth would have noticed. Sherwin, meanwhile, has limited experience outside the Scourge war and none with daemonkind. He probably just got spooked like Norton.

Our mission proceeds as planned. We have discovered a means to sneak out at night. Arclock may have put all sorts of wards up but he entrusted many of the lesser ones to us, his apprentices. The anti-cloaking ward would blow any invisibility spell but it is particular to magical signatures…not technological. Labink believes his stealthman 6000 should be able to bypass the ward, as the gnome has not yet put the technology detector ward (and really, what is the need? Only Gnomes and Goblins could use technology in such a way and the Kirin Tor is neutral to both).

One of us- Dane or Gloria- will stay behind. In the event that a Archmage decides to check on us- for whatever reason- she will cast an illusion spell on our cots so that it looks like, to the untrained eye, that our beds are occupied. Such illusions would not fool any but the most cursory glance but Gloria or Dane will be there to ensure that our absence is not so easily detected. She'll claim that we are sound asleep, basically.

More Later

Blackout Dreams

Dear Journal,

For you, it has been a couple days. I am sure you were wondering what became of our expedition down below.

That is the subject of tonight's writing.

It went well, at first. The whole sneaking out thing. As Labink predicted, the wards did not detect his stealthman. It also didn't hurt that the Archmages were all gathered in Trant's tent, all arguing about some stone that Trant found. We also side-stepped the adventurers, though Kindri had a sly smile on her face as we moved by, almost as if she could sense us. And perhaps she really could for, after all, the stealthman only obscures the eyes and druids prioritize all their senses to an inhuman degree.

However she made no attempt to stop us and really, why would she? If anyone in the world can understand our call to adventure, it would be the adventurers themselves. They could no more stop us than they could stop their own nature.

We made it to the tomb itself just as the stealthman fizzled out. After hastily looking back to listen for any shouts or running footsteps, it was quickly determined that we remained undetected (or as good as, in Kindri's case). Together, we summoned up miniature balls of animated fire to travel ahead of us to provide some light.

Then we descended into the abyss.

I can't begin to describe what we found down there. It was beautiful, truly the ancient Kaldorei had a way with architecture. We saw long winding corridors that featured still visible paintings of celestial beauty along the walls, shrines with statutes to priestesses that seemed breathtakingly life-like, even atriums that seemed like they could hold an entire army within them! Yet, if it was a beauty, it was a flawed beauty. Pale green marks scarred many of the walls from where the daemons had invaded.

A few points of the walls had the dried markings of what could only be blood from where the priestesses had attempted to fight off the Legion. We even came across a serpentine skull, doubtless that of the terrible Naga from when Illidan had them occupy this place and before the Kirin Tor drove them out.

Some of the building was definitely of more recent construction. The hasty, water-marked scaffolding of the Naga or the pristine work of the Guardian Aegwynn, who, rumor had it, imprisoned the corpse of Sargeras' avatar somewhere within the complex (though we definitely aren't looking for that!).

Excited, awed and hurried, for we knew we had precious hours till dawn, we split up, each of us seeking to acquire as much collective treasure as possible. As my two friends went to explore the two wings of the temple, I went down below into the catacombs. I went down past the stairs leading to what were once the sacred chambers of the priestesses, marveling at the statue of Elune that stood taller than the Stormwind Cathedral.

It was in the catacombs beyond that I saw an artifact along the wall. It was of a tall Kaldorei maiden, dressed in priestly robes that seemed more ornate than anything I have ever seen. Such an impressive statuette would doubtless have incredible value to the Night Elves. Immediately, I ran for it but then tripped on a unseen obstacle. The last I remember was the shadows closing in.

My next memories were of light as I reached the entrance, the clasping of shaking hands around my shoulder and vision of concerned faces. When I next came too, I was being questioned by Arclock after the priest performed his healing. He asked what I could remember and I told him nothing, that I could remember naught but shadows.

The Archmage's visage turned concerned for a moment. Then, he nodded stiffly and said that I would be permitted a few days to heal before my punishment would commence.

Great, just the thing to look forward too!

More Later

Changes

Dear Journal,

 **What am I becoming?**

I am going to begin this with _**A**_ startling confession- that blackout in the Tomb might just be the best thing that has ever happened to me!

Honestly, I don't think I have ever _**F**_ elt so alive! Maybe it was all that sleeping I did as I recovered from the blackout or maybe it is my adrenaline still kicking in but I feel like I have the energy to move mountains- either physically or with magic.

I was assigned extra chores by grumpy _**L**_ ord Arclock, intended as punishment for my adventure. They were to be my tasks as almost the entire rest of the mission- barring a handful delegated to stay behind today- were to head out to the Frozen Portal.

His assignments were as follows: plan and _**E**_ xcavate additional 10 latrine stations –manually, without magic- and then use magic to provide an auto-evaporating enchantment (as no one wants to deal with all that waste), clean up a sealed laboratory alongside Archmage Trant for his experiments, clean up all the other apprentice tents, help Trish set up some additional wards and conjure up a dinner for the entire party once they returned.

The intent was clear. Without a doubt, _ **S**_ uch endeavors were intended as the ultimate punishment, for the Kirin Tor do not use the manners of corporal discipline like the less civilized cultures of Azeroth. No, to the active and incredibly creative minds of Dalaran boredom and tedious tasks were considered greater penalties.

I finished every single task in two _**H**_ ours.

It was a triumph that proved my _**V**_ irtuosity in at least one VIP's eyes. . Archmage Trant, who stayed behind to conduct his own experiments, was practically in awe of how fast I managed to perform my duties. No doubt expecting my work to be sloppy he went back and double checked everything, only to find that his laboratory was absolutely spotless, the dinner scrumptious, and the wards of a power that, Trant claimed, was almost Archmage level in their potency. Trant praised my resourcefulness and told me my disciplinary assignment was completed.

Thanking the Archmage for his kindness, I _**E**_ agerly envisioned an afternoon free to myself. As I turned to leave the Archmage grabbed my arm gently and pulled me aside

"I am truly impressed with your efficiency, _**S**_ tephen. I think you have a lot of potential. Perhaps, if you would like, I could help you develop it further. As I assume you are well aware, we have been observing the portal for some time and will soon move onto experimentations! I would appreciate having skilled hands by my side as we explore the secrets of this new world!"

I will admit, I couldn't contain my _**S**_ mile. Gushing in gratitude, I eagerly accepted Trant's offer. He smiled in return but insisted we keep this talk a secret. Finally, someone who recognizes my talents! Already Trant has gone beyond Arcantium who, though a kind master, has too many other apprentices to focus on.

As the day quickly dimmed and the _**E**_ xpedition returned from the portal, I decided that this was a celebratory occasion. I conjured up more food, enough to where my energy reserves started to hurt, and then gave instructions to the camp cook, magi Jane Kindleberry, on how to cook a delicious Pandaren spice recipe that I read about.

The feast that followed was full of _**L**_ uscious delights and truly remarkable conversations. Indeed, it seemed like everyone wanted to talk to me and, when we did converse, It was almost like I knew exactly what to say and when to say it. I made quite a few new friends that night, and perhaps a future friend of a different sort, if the winky eyes from Faeraenna Starshine and Jothyn Azurebane meant anything. Only three people looked at me with anything other than fondness – Arclock, who seemed off put by my enthusiasm and appetite (he later claimed I ate four times my normal helping), Hayes, who for some reason made me feel uncomfortable, and the ever jealous Norton.

More Later

Listening Session

At long last we apprentices have been given the opportunity to see up close the very object of this expedition: the Frozen Portal!

It took forever. Arclock, cautious to the point of insanity, inspected every single patch around the portal before reluctantly (under pressure from Trant and Arcantium) giving permission for a limited field trip. I must emphasize the 'reluctant' part, for I could hear the three debating heatedly in Arclock's tent .

I …should note something else here, too. At the time that I heard of their argument I was having lunch with my friends Dane, Gloria, and Labink. As my ears strained to pick up the conversation my three friends happily continued their own, as if they could not hear the far more important debate just a few tents away. Finally, annoyed, I snapped at them to be quiet and listen, as an Archmage argument was far more important than the latest gossip of the possibility of a relationship between Faeraenna and Jothyn (though I was definitely interested in revisiting that combination, later).

In confusion, the three did as I asked and for a few moments I could hear uninterrupted the argument between archmages- namely the frustration of the pair of dissenters against Arclock's over caution and the anger of Arclock for bringing (and I bristled at this) 'children to a top secret security project' Then Dane interrupted, hesitatingly.

"I don't hear anything. Do any of you?"

Annoyed again, I was on the verge of accusing him of being deaf before the other two nodded as well. Now I was confused, as while Dane and Gloria's inability to hear could be explained Labink should be able to hear what I cannot, as he has experimental gnomish ear implants that allow his hearing to normally surpass my own(at the expense of randomly shrinking or enlarging his ears, at times).

Yet confusion quickly gave way to annoyance – really, intense annoyance. I called them all deaf idiots and asked how the hell they had passed through even the most basic training if they couldn't hear their instructors instructions. For a moment, they were taken aback by my vehemence (as, truthfully, I was too) before hitting back with their own insults. Among them was "crazy and schizophrenic", as if the voices I heard were only in my head.

Finally, I pulled all three out of my tent and angrily pointed to the flap on Arclock's tent. After a minute of waiting and being called more names by my pissed off friends, the flap opened. My companions quickly shut up as Trant and Arcantium, looking flustered and annoyed but nonetheless triumphant, burst from the tent without a backwards glance.

For a moment my group stood in stunned silence. I allowed them that, basking in a triumph that felt heightened to an excessive point, as if I were bearing a pride of victory that was not just my own. Self-satisfied with my (looking back on it) petty victory, I turned to them, the previous annoyance shorn from my person and replaced with a powerful elation.

I was met with confusion, astonishment and, though barely noticed, a little fear. Naturally, I asked what was a matter

"Stephen, the tent is warded with a sound nullification spell " Gloria spoke with some hesitation "there is no way you should have been able to hear, well, anything that was going on in there."

Bewildered, I suggested that perhaps the wards had failed only to be met with replies that none of them heard anything. A quick inspection with a muttered incantation revealed that the wards were, indeed, still active.

Our conversation never recovered and, as we drifted to uneasy sleep, I have not been able to stop thinking of the incident even as this strange new ability manifests in other ways. I can hear them still, if I focus, though no longer just Arclock. I can hear Norton several tents away cursing himself for his ill-luck in losing Master Arcantium's wand, Faeraenna and Jothyn whispering to each other, and a dozen other nighttime conversations.

Stranger still I think….I think I can feel them as well –or at least feel their emotions. It sounds insane and I am hesitant to write this but I honestly think I can. When I listened to Arclock I could feel his suppressed annoyance and later felt the elation of triumph from Trant and Arcantium as if it were my own. I can feel them even now, feel the nervous excitement of Magister Trant, the lingering frustration of Arclock, and the lust of Faeraenna and-

Oh. Wow.

Well that is one rumor that has been confirmed.

I don't know what else to write and, to be honest, I am struggling to handle my newfound ability to 'empathize' with the lustful Quel'dorei. I need to go now, but rest assured I look forward to exploring this newfound power soon.

More Later.

 _ **ENIMENIMENIMENIMENIMENIM**_

Visions of Madness

I had hoped that with this journal entry I could provide more answers to both you and myself. Alas, that hope is not going to come to pass for today was perhaps the scariest and strangest day of my entire Kirin Tor career.

It started out relatively well, for as promised Arclock agreed to the field trip. We were assigned to carry the supplies of course but by now we apprentices have accepted that as a vital part of being an archmage, a position that seems to really only allow the title holder the ability to boast of magical prowess and to assign all their menial tasks to others. Together, my fellow apprentices and I carried various observation equipment to the frozen portal. I myself carried a load of observation goggles that I was told would allow us to see the otherworld in its glory.

As we marched I quickly noticed the magi and archmagi were a great ways up ahead, while us apprentices were lagging further behind. It was not long until I noticed that the other apprentices lagged further along than I, but it was not due to any heavier lifting on their part. No, they were deliberately walking a ways behind me.

Earlier that morning, the mistrust had spread, spoken by whispers by one who I had thought was beyond that- Dane. That the other apprentice didn't think I could hear him when I had just proven my hearing was well beyond his was insulting enough, but evidently he needed to add words like "Hearing voices in his head" (I had just proven that I didn't!) and "Volatilely moody". Which, to be honest, I was totally feeling, as my friend was talking terribly of me WITHIN EARSHOT.

I could feel it too, my emotional empathy striking again. Feel their wariness, their mistrust, their discomfort and, even, pity or concern. The collective emotions snowballed into my own and threatened to overwhelm me with those same feelings.

One stood out though. From Oliver Norton I felt glee, mockery and resentment in substantial measures. If the emotions of the others could be described as warmed soup, than his was boiling water and those emotions soon eclipsed my ability to feel the others.

I know I haven't explained to you, journal, why I hate him though I have done so in past journals. To save on a long story, we have never gotten along. He is just really…weird. Normally, he is the quite but highly emotionally volatile fellow who blows up on us frequently, always accusing us of mocking him behind his back . He even accuses us when we are not actually mocking him behind his back. He is into weird subjects, such as the 'academic' study of warlocks and necromancy ( a little fact which had already drawn concerned attention from his instructors) and seems to giggle nervously at grizzly things, like the description of the atomized fallen of Theramore.

His resentment becomes mine, and not all of said resentment was merely taken from Norton. Seriously, how dare that kid!?

I shot Norton a hateful glance

"Don't look at me, you freak" I whisper to him.

He laughs, loudly. The others take note

"Freak, you call me! I am not the one who hears voices in my head and blows up on my friends like some menstruating orc maiden!"

It wasn't a rather good comeback, but I could tell it registered, somewhat, among my friends. I began to feel fear, for I knew that, in the vicious politicking of teenagers, that friendship can be made and lost depressingly easy. Already I could see his petty intent, to elevate himself above me and place me as the 'chief freak'.

I upon my mouth for a reply – and my tongue seems to move on my own. I mean it, journal, I really don't know why I said what I am about to write

"Oh, you little cur, you would know all about the breeding affairs of orcs now wouldn't you? Did you learn about that when your mom sold herself to one to provide you a wolfskin blanket's warmth during a terrible snow storm? Perhaps" I dramatically eyed him up and down "given your appearance, that wasn't your mom's _first_ affair with an orc."

There was an audible gasp among the crowd and I nearly doubled over as I something white and hot- hate, pure and unadulterated and not my own- enter my system. Then, a second later, I really did double over as a coward's fist connected with my jaw and sent me sprawling.

I looked up at Norton. Tears- whether of rage or humiliation- lined his cheeks.  
"Take that back, you inbred piece of-"

I readied myself for a fight but, strangely, my right hand seemed clutched in a death grip on one of the goggles. Stranger still, the fingers seemed to move on their own.

I was saved the opportunity to respond by another voice calling out

"What is going on back there?"

I turned, and saw that three of the Kirin Tor- including Magister Arcantium- had turned to my direction.

I suppressed my petty urge to tell the truth and instead yelled back

"Nothing, I just fell, that's all!"

Even in a distance I could see the skepticism, but, before they could question more, I picked myself up and hurried on, suppressing at every step my desire for revenge and the emotions that were flowing through me, both my own and others. I could feel the hate and fear at my back, the suspicion and concern at my front, and the humiliation and resentment that walked alongside me. My hand remained firmly on the goggles.

Finally, we arrived at the portal and, momentarily, my mind was made blank by what I saw.

It was a swirling portal alright, akin to those used by the Kirin Tor, but far bigger, as big as a one of the inns of our city. The energies of the portal swirled rapidly and from its depths a certain chill emanated, like I was staring into a freezer. Yet, to my amazement, the immediate area around the portal had bizarre vegetation around it. Usually, plant life was as rare as a double blue moon up north, for the cold and long months of darkness limited growth time. There on the floor was not only variants of plant life that I recognized from my Northrend studies but vegetation that I could swear was fairly temperate or even tropical!

Moreover, insects were emerging from the plants, another rarity in the icy North. Though these were bigger than even many of the tropics and seemed, to my eyes, altered in a manner. Some had more wings or extra mouths in places that didn't make any sense, like the tail.

Arcantium waved his hands towards the portal

"As you can see, students, the energies of the portal are quite unlike those of the Dark Portal. Whereas the energies of the Draenor gate- that is the Draenor gate of our universe, not the other- brought only death and fel-wrought ruin to the what we now call the Blasted Lands, this portal, as you can see, breeds life of a dazzling, and normally impossible, variety."

Arcantium walked over and took a pair of goggles from the bin.

"Thanks to our wondrous Trish Whizzlegadget we now have the means to see past the physical and explore the boundaries of the metaphysical. I can assure you what you see here is drab and dull compared to the sights that await through the veil."

Eagerly, students and magi alike grabbed their goggles from the bins, with Norton pausing to only give the slightest glance of contempt as he reached for his own. Then, like eager school-children before a cage with a fascinating animal inside, they gathered around the portal itself.

From dozens of mouths came a mixture of gasps, exclamations and proclamations of awe and wonder. Some spoke of swirling winds of color, like some sort of rainbow mixed with a hurricane. Others spoke of bright tapestries, gears like clockwork or swirling blends that dazzled the eye with their colors.

I did not speak of what I saw.

Before my startled eyes I saw a vast aquarium, a sky ocean filled to the brim with exotic creatures free from the constraints of the land below. Yet these were no bright, colorful jellies of Vashj'ir's coral reefs nor the playful fish that swam to and fro among the reefs. No, these were hellish creatures, akin to the fish of the very deep of the ocean but with malevolence even those strange fish lacked.

Across the sky of constantly shifting colors bipedal figures of a deep sanguine chased flickering amorphous bursts of light across the sky, entities which, for some reason, struck me as vaguely human-like, even resembling the human form when they stopped moving. Were they supposed to be ghosts? Occasionally, one of these bipedal figures would catch one of these spirits and devour it in a display of incredible violence that turned the ocean yet a deeper shade of red. These sanguine sharks did not share the sky alone, however.

Massive behemoths of some foul green substance that looked like pus lumbered across the bedrock of sharpened crystal-coral, every staggering step causing the knife like grass to dig into their skin and spill the foul green substance like a Gnomergan oil tanker into water. Those bursts of spirit that were caught by the behemoths or their blood turned a sickly pallid green color. Others hoped for refuge in the sharded sea floor, only for the crystal coral to rise up and swallow them whole. Cackling vaguely crustacean-like figures of breathtaking beauty danced through it all, drawing every gaze to them and rewarding those most transfixed with a deadly peck of their own.

As my eyes traveled across the sky, I felt a sinking feeling across my stomach, that same slithering snake uncoiling and then recoiling deeper, almost like it was trying to hide, to not be recognized. I felt the unbearable urge to look away so as to not draw their hungry gaze to me.

Hesitantly I backed away. Arclock, who had been standing aside watching warily as we apprentices viewed the other world, glanced at me with concern. Then his attention was broken as a shrill scream broke the entire party out of their ogling.

Norton was on the ground, gasping for breath and as pale as a sheet. As Arclock and others rushed to his aid, the boy began to moan painfully, scream loudly and then, right as the instructors reached him, follow that up with a laugh that caused every hair on the back of my neck (and, likely, others as well) to stand up.

Finally, Arclock ripped the goggles from his face.

We returned immediately afterwards, everyone extremely shaken by the experience. As I listen to Hayes whisper encouragingly to Norton as he calls upon the Holy Light, as I listen to Arclock chastise Arcantium and listen to the other apprentices talk excitably and fearfully about the day's event I utter only a single prayer.

I pray to the Light that no one realizes Norton put on the goggles that I was holding.

More Later

 _ **-THE LIGHT WILL NOT ANSWER. BUT I WILL—**_

Secret Experimentations

Two days have passed since the portal incident and for two days we, the apprentices, have been virtually locked in the camp. 'For your own safety' is Arclock's refrain.

For the time being, none of the other apprentices seem to resent Arclock's command. Indeed, they seem rather shell-shocked by the whole affair. Norton has been in a coma since that day and has not stopped moaning about the monsters in the sky. With my strangely enhanced senses, I can hear every babble, every cry of monsters that he makes to the attending priest, Fabiano.

I pity that strange kid, but I can't help but feel relieved no one has pointed to the fact that his goggles were the ones that I held, clutched in my hand, for so long.

As an aside, for some reason, I cannot stand to be around Fabiano Hayes and I do not know why. The Priest has always been kind to me and I have enjoyed our conversations during this expedition. Yet, every time he draws close I feel sick to my stomach and feel something inside me coil defensively in a manner that reminds me of a snake flexing up to deter another predator. So far I have excused myself in these situations by claiming an excuse such as an ill stomach but I am not sure those excuses will keep working.

There is another factor adding to my relief as well; I have started to work alongside Archmage Trant as he studies the mysteries of the Other World.

As of now, my direct apprenticeship is secret. He is not sure Arclock would approve so soon after the Portal incident, while Arcantium- though fair a master in many aspects- might feel a little upstaged if he knew that his colleague was stealing the use of his apprentice. For those reasons, I arrived in Trant's tent at well past dusk, having told my tent-mates that I was meeting another apprentice . Said tent-mates- Gloria, Dane and Labink- have treated me with great wariness since the Frozen Portal incident, and are a lot less questioning of my movements than they were- at least, out loud.

For the time being the Archmage said that our appointments would have to be brief, for risk of Arclock or one of the other mages discovering.

When I arrived at the tent Trant eagerly rushed me in, excited as I was to get the experiments started. I was slightly awed by the pure volume of instruments and measurements before me and wondered aloud whether I was in a Kirin Tor study or a Gnomergan Laboratory! Trant chuckled and spoke briefly of his partnerships with notable Gnomergan mage leaders, including one whose star has risen rapidly on Draenor.

As he spoke on, I peered around at the individual experiments. Some of them seemed difficult to discern the purpose of at first, like a series of tubes and cylinders which seemed to blow air in a circular direction. I pointed that out

"Ah, that is the magical air of the other world whose description no one seems to agree one! I sent an elemental out to capture some of it a couple of days ago. I had previously attempted to store it in single vessels however in each case said glass containers seemed to expand, heat up and ultimately crack. This is the first solution I have tried that hasn't exploded in my hands!" Trant pointed to a series of wounds on his left hand that had clearly come from glass.

As I study the housing cylinders I notice one, a smaller tube, seems to veer off into another canister. Eagerly, I point to the other container, larger than the others, which houses several plants of bright colors and description. All of them however, seem to be …more frightening, than the typical plant on Azeroth.

"Those are the plants you have seen by the portal. I have kept them contained in the lab, filtering them with the air of the other world for our oxygen seems to be…insufficient almost. It is difficult to describe but those who I have left to pure Azerothian air without exposure to the, well, what we will call the 'Winds of Magic' do not seem to live long."

"Fascinating!" and I do feel sincerely feel fascinated. Deep in my stomach I could swear something moves, as if it is waking up to take note of our conversation.

It is then that my eyes are drawn to a large rock- the size of my head- in the center of the laboratory, surrounded by an protective glass container nearly the size of my person. Seeing my gaze, he points to it and speaks

"This is a hunk of stone that we recovered from near the portal on the other side. If you were to put your goggles on- and best not, by the way, after your poor colleague's incident- you can see it seethes like with the same magical energy of the Winds. I hypothesize that just as our own air may, through condensation, turn into water this might be the result of something similar occurring with the Winds of Magic, and then that liquid solidifying further thanks to the arctic climate into this 'greenice'."

I feel energized around it! It's like I am one of the gnomish or goblinoid bots and this is my power core. I feel an incredible urge to just be around it and bask in its glow. The Archmage however, like a professor engrossed in his chosen subject, did not initially recognize his pupil's excitement before I drew his notice.

"Master Trant, can you feel the energy of this rock? It's like nothing I have ever felt before!"

Trant paused here and then considered, before smiling and nodding to himself happily.

"You are correct. Come to think of it I have felt more energized around the greenice than I have in a long time. Moreover, I feel it is a great source of creativity! Come, see some of my experiments!

He pointed to the two glass cages at the other end. In one, stood a plant whose leaves and limbs spiraled in every direction to the point where the glass container- almost my size- seemed like it could barely contain it! In the other was a large rat whose size had grown to almost that of a dog, and who was sporting four additional legs.

"Using a remote scalpel, I was able to carve off tiny fragments of the greenice. This was then ground up and put in the rat's food- and the plant's water. In just a single day I have seen some stunning mutations among both! "

I glanced closer, mostly captivated by the unnatural changes before me. Yet, I must confess, a tiny part of me did feel a little uneasy. The rat seemed unnaturally hungry while the plant seemed to have, for lack of better word, mouths in different areas. Also carnivorous and already several insects were twitching inside a few of the mouths.

However my mind sped forward, almost as if on its own accord. I had a suggestion for Archmage Trant that, looking back, for some reason I seemed incredibly eager to deliver.

"All this is spectacular, Magister Trant. But I think we can do even crazier experiments! What if we used the 'greenice' as power stones for our magic…or even battle elixirs!. I mean if the magical vapor can be condensed than surely we can melt it, right?"

Trant looked at me with surprise but then smiled and said that he had definitely chosen correctly when it came to a assistant! We then spent the next five minutes talking about potential methodologies and trials before Trant's ward went off; Arclock wanted to speak to him.

He ushered me out through the back before hurriedly promising that we would continue the experiments tomorrow, after he had melted some of the greenice or greenstone or whatever-name-you-chose-to-call-it.

Another strange incident occurred after I finished up with Trant. I was walking back to my tent when I heard Faeraenna Starshine and Jothyn Azurebane speaking of me by their own dwelling. They never mentioned my name but the context of the conversation- the quick mentions of the tomb incident, my rise in favor, alleged personality changes- could leave no doubt as to the subject of it.

Teasingly, for I remembered their winks well the other night, I told them that if I was drawing that much of their attention, perhaps they would prefer some 'closer' examinations…as Trant would put it. My grin fell off as their faces contorted to visages of utter shock and confusion. Evidently, they had been speaking in Thrassallian and I had responded in the same language….perfectly.

I have never studied Thrassallian.

I haven't been able to sleep since. My mind is awash with…possibilities. Could the glowing rock- or the portal beyond be responsible for the wave of changes that have overtaken me? Honestly it excites me as much as terrifies me. If I can master these new powers my fame will equal the genetic oddities of the Darkmoon Festival. If I can master these abilities- and show others that mastery is possible- than my name will be honored with the best of them, like the first adventurer through the Draenor gate or the champion who put the final blade through the Lich King.

More Later

Explosive Night

Hello again Journal.

I am writing to you sooner than I had originally intended. It is still the same night of my last entry. I had just managed to get to sleep an hour ago before being violently woken up just a few minutes later.

Trant's tent was on fire- there was an explosion inside. In a hurry we conjured many gallons of water but, for some reason, the water seemed only to feed the flames, which were an eerie green color. Seeing the futility of our firefighting techniques Arclock used his arcane magic to place a shield around the flames. Starved of oxygen, this quickly proved a more effective technique.

I feared the worst for Trant however, fortunately, I underestimated the magister's ingenuity. Though the magister had been knocked to the floor, he had managed to conjure an arcane shield around himself and most of the instruments, resulting in most of it being saved.

Trant seemed more embarrassed than anything. He claimed, loudly, that he was fine though the burn marks on his arm said otherwise. Arclock had attempted to bring the priest adventurer in only to be angrily rebutted by the other Archmage- a response that I felt an eerie understanding for. He did permit some apprentices to help him clean up, though none were allowed near the green rock.

I recognized his intent and stayed behind. At last, when the others had left, I walked over to Trant.

"Sir, what happened? " I asked.

Trant turned, his eyes tinged with excitement that bordered on mania.

"Experiments lad! After you left I thought to put some of your ideas to the test and by the light you were right! I held the rock in one hand- gloved, don't worry- and cast a simple conjuration spell for a meal. Instead of getting a single meal I got a feast that would well feed half of our party! I can't wait to test with a combat spell, though in safer parameters of course…"

He veered off here a bit, and so I steered him back to the incident

"Oh, that. "he spoke dispassionately now, in contrast to his earlier emotion "it was my mistake, truth be told. I was trying to boil some of the warp down so we could create an experimental elixir for use on the rodents to test its effects. Its mutative properties make it risky for the field deployment at the moment, but with further testing I am confident we can eliminate such harmful elements. "

He motioned somewhat to the door, obviously intent on continuing his studies while his mind was active. Before I left I had one last question

"Sir, what happened to your arm? "

He glanced at it, as if seeing it for the first time. What I had first thought was a burn mark was not a scar from fire, but scaly, akin to a snake. I could pick out the individual flakes meld into Trant's human-like skin. He turned towards me and with a shaky voice responded

"I don't know."

I won't deny the words have haunted me. Haunted me as I considered the plants that looked positively carnivorous, haunted me as I considered the rat's malevolent eyes and haunted me as I considered the phenomenal abilities and energy I have had over the last week. When I wrote earlier I was excited, feverish over the possibilities of learning a new form of magic to instantly bypass language barriers and read empathy. Yet it is clear now on further reflection that there is a dark side to this new gift.

On a daring hunch, I lifted my left arm's sleave, then my right seeking mutations. I nearly breathed a sigh of relief until I saw a faint etching leading to my chest. There, right where my heart would be is a single word that defies translation.

ROKAL'EB

By the Light, what has happened to me?

Tomorrow, I will need to make the decision. Do I explore my changes further, or do I seek out Mr. Hayes?

Invaders from beyond

I was going to see the priest today but there is no time now.

Around noon we heard alarms coming from the portal and excited shouts from the portal; something was coming through! Aliens from another world!

So excited was I that I forgot all about my previous night's woes. I rushed to the portal, ecstatic over the possibility of meeting and learning from aliens of the Other World!

In this I was disappointed in two regards. They weren't aliens. They were humans, only they weren't. These...I struggle to call them 'people' were like perversions of the human form, grotesque monstrosities of mutated muscle, foul features and a sense of aggression that would shame even an orc of the Old Horde.

There is something you must know, reader, if I do not make it. These strangers are beyond peace and reason. I may know little of the glowing rock of the late Trant but I already recognize its influence and these 'men' are more tainted by it than the rat or plant of yesterday.

We fought of course, killed more than our fair share. I myself must have killed a couple dozen. Those strange powers feel magnified now and my chest aches like something is trying to crawl out of it and take control.

Arclock and the few that are left are dying now so that we can get back to Dalaran. I regret every complaint I ever made about him.

I need to get there

Need to bring down the might of the Kirin-

A Vessel Claimed

 _I was content to allow your soul to languish a little while longer, vessel of mind. To watch with interest as your kind toiled to comprehend mysteries beyond them. To amuse myself as you struggled to make sense of the changes that wracked your body. To delight, as your little-noticed actions brought doom to those around you. Then, finally, to arise newborn when I could amuse myself no more in the flying artifice of stone you call a city._

 _But it was not meant to be._

 _Blame yourself, if you can. I have no desire to clash with what passes for divinity in your realm. Not yet. You would have perished before the request of salvation ever left your lips if you had sought out the holy man._

 _Blame circumstance, if you will. I would not have the powers that be in this world know of the presence of my kind just yet. You gave me the opportunity to ensure that would not be so._

 _Blame fate, if you dare. It was the Changer of it who brought the degenerate legions of the north howling from the warp-gate. The Changer has forced my hand, as he so often has._

 _Blame all but Be'lakor. My right, my claim over your soul is the right of a lion over the gazelle; the shark over the seal. I claimed everything the moment you foolishly sought glory in those catacombs._

 _But I am not without generosity. Here is a boon, a gift for the journey you are about to take._

 _Mortal fame is a lie._

 _It is fleeting, like the fluttering flame before the aethyric storm. All your fame and infamy. Accomplishment and achievement. All a lie. A mere blink in an immortal's eye. Even in the reckoning of material universes, it is less than a drop of water in the ocean._

 _Let me speak of my own history, child. Scores of species have perished before my hand; entire epochs wiped clean with the sweep of my blade. I took the sword to them, and then took the torch to what detritus they left behind. What mortals call 'culture' and 'records'. Their gods and cities. Legends and societies. Hopes and ambition. All of it dust to the Aethyr, scattered like the grains of the southern sands in the wind._

 _Who now remembers Charon of the Horse-men? He who led a charge of a million thundering hooves across the Plain of Broken Destinies- The last vainglorious attempt of the True Centaurs to shut that which would never be shut again. Do they remember Urda, queen of the Wormkin, who swallowed whole the Fortress of Eternity or Chakpat, the emperor of locusts whose kind once blocked out the sun? Do they remember the dozens of species with whom they once shared a realm?_

 _No?_

 _No recollection?_

 _That's because there is none to have for fleshlings. The races not yet undone by the ravages of my kind remember them not. Only in the inaccessible ancestral memories of man, the most faded scribblings of the stunted and the oldest legends of the delicate is even a fragment of truth contained._

 _Only in my history is their tale known, for I am their slayer and conqueror both. And that is where your petty desire for prominence is achieved, child. For I will always remember you._

 _As the first soul of this material universe wholly claimed by Be'lakor, the First-Damned, HE-WHO-WILL-BE-FIFTH._

AN: This is probably my first ever diary short story and I enjoyed writing it, though not quite as much as my previous entry. I have been incredibly pleased and grateful for all my reviewers and I am frankly amazed my last Chronicles entry achieved so many! It has been greatly inspiring when I am struggling with authorial blocks.

My next story, in Chronicles of Convergence, will be in two weeks as I haven't quite managed to write enough to upgrade that to weekly occasions. I am working on it, however. That next entry will provide some key details for where I want to go with the rest of this volume.

True Skull – See the title, "Twin Legions'. It will be a while yet, but I can promise the Legions of Two Worlds ultimately meet! I have already jotted down some dialogue, including some dialogue between Archaon and Gul'dan.

Wolpe Thank you!

Darklord92 Thank you will definitely tree to keep them coming!

Worm 1 Thank you man! Gul'Dan will have a chapter soon, that I can promise, as I want to start doing little side stories of what is going on elsewhere. Some will be OC characters of various importance, including a Ind individual who I want to start building up now, while others are will be canon characters, like Teclis, Gul'Dan, and Yrel (I eventually want to cover the 35 year gap in her storyline between WOD and BFA). You are right about both Avatar and Mass Effect, while the third is an Old God infested world of my own creation.

Expect Kil'Jaden to go to that world sometime in the future.

Reality Deviant Thank you, I am trying to improve on my cosmic level writing. Hopefully the next Chronicles of Convergence can continue that trend, when the Chaos Gods meet.

Thank you good sir! You are correct on Avatar while the second is Mass Effect and the third is a creation of my own. Or, well, the worlds are Warcraft's version of Mass Effect and Avatar, not the Burning Legions going to those actual universes, as I want to keep this to Warcraft-Warhammer crossover. Though I do have a threat I might pursue that would briefly involve the sci-fi cousin of the latter. We will see if I get that far.

Dios Thank you and that will be explored in time, I promise!

Fenrir44 Oh I definitely plan to use Malekith later down the line, albeit much later. I would like to explore cultural interactions too, like how would the Elves of Warcraft view the excessive pride of Warhammer and how would Warhammer view the occasions where Warcraft elves breed with 'lesser races', along with honestly allying with them, rather than using them as pawns/proxy/meat shield?

I don't think a Dwarf-Dwarf meeting would go much better, to be honest :P. Mix a Happy friendly drunk (mostly) together with a mean one that tends to start fights and form grudges over a misspoken word and what do you get?


	6. Skirmish in Azshara

AN: Greetings all! This is my first side story, detailing events and stories that occur apart to the main sequence at the time of their writing. I plan to use these side stories as a sort of 'slow-build' of different threads that I eventually intend to incorporate into the main storyline. Remember that, for my next short story may well be set in Ind.

 _"But M'Lord, you cannot build a bridge over a river when its shorelines wn't stop moving apart!"-_ _Ken Loggin, Alliance Peasant_

With a silence that belied his impressive frame, the orc leaned slightly forward, expertly positioning his weight so as not to overwhelm the branch on which he stood. Leaves and auxiliary branches obscured easy vision from the ground, while his position among the canopy ensured it would be difficult- though admittedly not impossible- to be snuck up in that regard. The Orc knew that with that incredible goblin cacophony his ears would be useless here. Still his instincts were honed across a decade of perpetual warfare beneath dark canopies such as these.

That said Derge Lowsteel was honest with himself; he knew that the nocturnal vision of the Kaldorei had no comparison. That is why orcs in the remnants of the Azshara forest preferred to get their business done during the day if they had any choice in the matter.

Unfortunately, 'choice' was rarely given by the ruler of this ancestor-cursed land, a goblin by the name of Jastor Gallywyx.

Involuntarily, Derge almost ground his teeth before holding back at the last moment. He knew that if an elf was close enough, than the Kaldorei could hear even that.

As his keen eyes glanced quickly at the branches of nearby trees, looking for the slightest shakes that could indicate movement, his mind was elsewhere, ruminating over friends lost and maimed on account of the greed of a singular, loathsome goblin.

Jastor prized efficiency and speed, every goblin knew that. When the treaty of Orgrimmar was signed, ending the last Alliance-Horde war, Gallywix had been delighted that the Night Elves had ceded rights to Azshara. He had publically declared to all that would listen that Azshar would be a goblin paradise even greater than Kezan in less than a year.

It seemed to Derge that, to goblins, there was no 'tree' in paradise as shortly thereafter Jastor gave orders for much of the entire Azsharan forest be leveled in order to supply the raw materials for his construction projects. Apparently, he wanted to build a goblin city that would outshine even the Undermine.

There were just two problems with that.

The first was that the land Jastor wanted to eliminate measured many hundreds of miles.

To enact such a massive deforestation campaign would require a truly massive labor force armed with shredders and other logging machines. Jastor had grabbed nearly every goblin he could find and then sent out a recruitment drive among other races of the Horde. Barring a few exceptions here and there, the majority of the recruits were orcs, and mostly those diminutive peons. Trolls, Tauren and the few Pandaren in the Horde were all deeply uncomfortable with the desecration of nature while 'physical labor' was as much an anathema to Blood Elves as charity was to a goblin. Some Forsaken groups HAD offered, likely bored out of their minds back in the Eastern Kingdoms, but insisted that they use their own machinery and 'home-made tree repellant' to do the deed.

Not even the Goblin Prince was crazy enough to blight his own province.

That didn't stop Gallywix from trying his own quick-fix solutions, however. He had sent in automated robots, only for said machines to mysteriously get hopelessly tangled in roots and malfunction. He had outright bombed the forest, only for the afflicted portions to mysteriously grow back days later or even the same day. In frustration, he had even unleashed alchemical fires upon the forest, disregarding the whole logic behind logging operations in the first place, only for the winds to mysteriously blow towards goblin settlements.

The common thread there was the second problem with the idea.

The Night Elves never left. Oh Tyrande Whisperwind had signed the deal and verbally agreed to the transaction (Azshara in exchange for the Horde fully leaving Ashenvale) but that did not mean all her people followed it. Many had lived there for thousands of years and did not want to vacate their homes for some vulgar people across the sea. It was the great conceit of their race, to claim so much land for the sole practice of hording it rather than using the resources to build a better future for their children.

Perhaps, too, these elves were not in full defiance of their ruler. Derge knew how loathe the Kaldorei were to give up their land and such resentment might lead to their ruler disregarding the spirit of the treaty, if following it by the letter. Oh the treaty said, in very fine goblin writing, that the Sentinels had to vacate Azshara and they had. But that didn't mean a couple small groups of settlers counted as Sentinels. And Tyrande couldn't very well enforce the treaty if those settlers didn't outwardly acknowledge her authority. Still, she could trade with them, as one independent people might to another.

Trade that undoubtedly contained weapons, armor and war beasts.

Derge had fought the Kaldorei for so long- since the Third War- that he came to recognize the tiny, individual markings and styles Night Elven blacksmiths left on their creations. He was positive that quite a few of the ones he found embedded in Orc or Goblin backs originated from Darnassus.

Still, the Orc couldn't entirely blame the Night Elves for their perfidy in regards to the treaty; he knew that Orc and Goblins still harvested from Ashenvale when they thought they could get away with it. After all, sometimes cartographers got confused at just what river a border began and another ended. And if a Kaldorei was found on what the Horde considered their land, well, they would be trespassing and dealt with like trespassers should be.

Derge glanced below at the overworked laborers frantically moving to and fro as they desperately sought to meet the day's quota – an impossible task, for the quotas were designed not to be met.

Frustrated that none of his 'destroy the forest quick' solutions worked, Gallywix ordered the shifts doubled. Most shift managers would typically assign three shifts if they had to run a job all twenty four hours a day, with the Orgrimmar city guard being one example. Gallywix disdained such a policy. Instead, the shortest shift now lasted twelve hours, and most workers were lucky to get off before their sixteenth. Sixteen hours, six days a week, with only the minimal amount of rest on their seventh day, for to Gallywix a 'worker's day off' meant work a half (eight hour) day.

His eyes watching the slightest twitch of a branch two dozen meters away, Derge shook his head very slightly as he contemplated all those fools who had flocked to Gallywix's jobs, enticed by the impressive hourly pay, well ahead of most goblin barons. Even more incredibly, Gallywix had actually delivered and for a few moments all those exhausted peons and goblin laborers were able to enjoy a very hefty bag of gold.

And then the fees started.

Fees for room and board, fees for equipment handling, fees for fresh water, fees for dirty water, fees for not achieving the daily minimum workload, fees for achieving the daily fees for bathroom maintenance (by which Jastor meant the infamous, never cleaned outhouses), fees for if the quota was met but not exceeded, fees for contract negotiations, fees for loitering, fees for day-dreaming, fees for attempts to escape or otherwise leave their occupation before allowed, fees for protection from unsavory forest denizens, fees for wildlife, fees for acquiring too many fees…

The branch twitched again, ever so slightly, and the Orc began to move an arrow to his bow. The hair on the back of his neck began to slowly rise; a telltale sign that trouble was to come.

To make matters worse for his laborers, the Kaldorei settlers that remained were indeed infuriated by the goblin incursions and responded with savagery that would have impressed even an orc of pre-legion Draenor. At first it was barely noticeable, with a few goblins or orcs that left for bathroom breaks (for pissing on a tree was, by now, more sanitary that going to an outhouse) never returning, their bodies never being found either. Then, later on, the bodies would be discovered, mauled to death by claws or riddled with tell-tale arrows. To his credit, Gallywix began to send elements of his own army to protect the workers, but nonetheless ordered the logging operations to continue, quicken even.

The attacks got more brazen. Goblin shredders, their arms always in frantic motion, would sometimes go motionless. When irritated Bilgewater overseers went to force them to return to work, they only met wide eyes and the arrowheads buried between them. Other times, great cats or bears would tear from the canopy and drag off a screaming worker before his fellows could get to him. The sound from all the machinery made such a racket that any sound from an assault, no matter how heinous the murder, was virtually undetectable by hearing.

To maximize worker misfortune, many of these raids occurred at night, when the workers were exhausted and the _Night_ Elves were most active. Whole logging groups had been surrounded and butchered then, entire vehicles dragged beneath the earth by vines that grew with supernatural speed. Stubbornly, Gallywix refused to stop with the midnight logging operations though he did double the patrols. However, even those proved insufficient, for the Kaldorei were too adept at guerilla fighting and more often than not simply slipped through goblin defenses, the way water leaked through the cracks of a hand.

And that was why Derge Lowsteel was here, among others, for Gallywix had finally been annoyed enough by the constant disruptions to hire that which he hated: adventurers.

Derge suppressed a snort that he knew could be fatal, even with goblin shredders drowning out all noise with their incredible racket. It was no secret that the old goblin distrusted that roving class of Horde champions, and for good reason. After all, it was one particularly famous goblin champion that had stopped Gallywix's plan to enslave most of the goblin race right in its tracks. Even looking beyond that one incident, the transient champions proved difficult to pin down on a contract much less enforce said agreement. Many had no houses to seize, no easily available assets to take and physically forcing them to abide by the contract was….a highly risky gamble, to say the least.

Still, personal distaste aside, the goblin prince was a business opportunist first and foremost. If he had to work alongside Horde mercenaries to get what he wanted, than Gallywix would do so without a second backward glance.

Didn't stop him from trying to cheat in contract negotiations, though.

Below, a goblin, his eyes droopy and his movements sporadic, collapsed. Derge glanced at him out of one eye, aware that collapsing from exhaustion here was equally as likely as falling from a Kaldorei arrow. Moreover, it would be a mistake for him to abandon his position to try to help the poor guy. A Sin'dorei huntress had fallen for such a trick last week and all she achieved was dying alongside the worker who she sought to help.

Goblin supervisors, two of them, however, were bound by contract to help. And they did, out of as much fear for Gallywix's fees as concern for the fallen. The most compassionate of the pair brought a jug of water with him, while the supervisor known for sadism brought a cattle shock pod.

Derge grimaced; that would not end well.

Raising his head slightly, the fallen goblin greedily drank the offered jug, before yelping terribly as the shock pod was pressed into his rear.

From his perch high above he couldn't hear the goblins speaking below. The racket of machinery made that impossible. But he had worked with goblins long enough over the past few years to know, instinctively, what they would say in this situation. He could read them well enough to fill in the parts of the conversation his hearing could not catch.

 _GET BACK TO WORK_ , yelled the sadistic supervisor to the now cowering goblin laborer. He raised his cattle prod for good measure.

The terrified worker yelped and fled from him. He grabbed a discarded axe and began attacking the tree with renewed –and, to the orc hunter- comical vigor. It reminded him of watching new footman recruits of the Alliance desperately whack away at grasping Scourge limbs in the War in Northrend, which never seemed to stop moving no matter how you cut them.

The supervisor delighted in his petty power, grinning widely. He turned to his colleague, who was not impressed.

 _Was that really necessary?_ the second supervisor said.

 _Necessary? Have you seen these quotas!? We are going to need them all to work overtime to satisfy the Big Boss._

The second supervisor shook his head, but did not deny the point. She didn't have time to. The first supervisor had already spotted another goblin lying face down and with a widening grin pretended to sneak up on him dramatically. No doubt snickering, the goblin whacked his prone underling hard on the rear with the shock prod, causing the unfortunate to twitch, violently.

But he did not get up. _He must be out cold,_ Derge thought to himself.

In anger the goblin whacked the underling once, twice more, each time failing to rouse the goblin beneath. Finally, no doubt frustrated, the goblin supervisor reached the worker's side and harshly kicked him over on his back.

Immediately, Derge drew his arrow.

The Goblin jumped back in fright, then bolted, not even bothering to check if the fallen worker- now revealed to have an arrow buried neatly in his throat- was still alive. He wasn't, but he also wouldn't be alone in death.

His tyrannical now ex-boss was the first to follow. The sadistic goblin had barely taken three steps when an arrow broke from the tree lines and nailed his retreating back.

The goblin went down, but not in vain. The Orc had seen the brush from whence the arrow came and had mentally noted its angle. The Orc sent a return arrow to the same spot, confident despite the fact he could not see through the vegetation that he would, at least, hit his foe.

Immediately, the Orc leapt from the tree branch. Not a moment too soon, either, for no less than three projectiles impacted the area he had formerly been standing on.

Derge rolled upon impact, turning the last part of the motion into a leap for cover behind a nearby tree. Acting on instinct, he tucked his head further than usual. An owl-fletched arrow grazed the back of his neck.

The hunter huddled behind the tree, his fingers briskly moving down the now raw neck to feel for any traces of venom. Fortunately, he had been lucky. There was none.

The near deafening sound of shredder blades in motion abruptly ceased, though whether that was because their operators detected the danger or were themselves silenced by elven arrows the orc couldn't tell.

Regardless of their fate, the deafening cacophony of machinery had ceased and the more natural sounds of battle took their place. Derge sneered in disgust as he heard peons, ever the shame of the orcish race, scream and panic and cry for help, running about like spooked cattle. As if to balance the peon's cowardice the bellows of orcish and hobgoblin bodies punctuated as each charged fearlessly into battle, the former driven by ambitions to bring honor to their ancestors while the latter was literally too stupid to feel differently. From the direction of the goblin camp a whole squad of them came running past his position, the leader of the grunts giving the orc hunter a disdainful look as he passed by.

"Fools" Derge muttered to himself as the cry 'Lok'tar Ogar" rose from their throats, at a volume that would have drowned out even the silenced machinery. If the elves weren't aware of the orcs before…

Bellowing charges and boasting attitudes had no place in this war, where the Kaldorei could melt away into the forest's shadows like water on the parched Durotar surface. No, fighting the Night Elves demanded a different style of fighting no more or less honorable than the glories of melee combat. To do otherwise would be to fight uselessly and die needlessly, and the ancestors turned their faces away from stupidity.

Still, an opportunity was afforded.

Carefully, the orc crept around cover, knowing that if he were seen the elves would train their arrows on him first. It would have been a wise decision, for Derge knew he was a far greater threat than the grunts.

Catching glance of the grunts, he could see one was already down, while two more had numerous arrow points stuck in their bodies. Even as he cautiously glanced out a third was hit, the arrow coming in from the right and driving into the grunt's shoulder. Not a fatal blow, for orcs were much hardier than a normal target but one that could weaken the victim in combat.

Fortunately, Derge has acquired a particular talent over the years of bitter fighting in Ashenvale; his eyes could track the arrows and determine, based on the wounds inflicted, the general location from whence they came. It was a rare talent, the orc knew, but one which had served him well in Ashenvale, where the fighting had been far more terrible and bitter.

The orc estimated his shot and fired into the underbrush, drawing satisfaction from the pained cry that followed. He had confidence that even if the elf lived, he was out of the fight. Orcish warbows were built with orcish strength in mind and Derge knew that his own bow- a mere hunting weapon- would easily classify as one of the heaviest bows an elf or human could wield.

Less than five seconds after he fired, Derge was forced to duck back into cover, as a series of elven arrows were sent right back at him.

New cries could be heard emanating from the depths of the forest, in both directions. Some were easily recognizable as more orc grunts sought to join the fray. Those battle cries melded with another sound, one which caused Derge to involuntarily shiver; the feline roars of the Kaldorei's nightsaber mounts. The Huntresses- tough warrior women at home in both melee and at range- had joined the battle.

Knowing that to poke his head out to the side would be to invite death (for doubtless the Kaldorei's own snipers were watching) Derge chose the third way out; he climbed. Each step upward was a delicate balancing act of potentially fatal repercussions, as the hunter knew that the orcish form was not as graceful as that of the elvish, and any visible shakes of the tree would no doubt tip off the Night Elves to his actions.

Growls and screams originated the fighting up ahead as the cat-mounted warrior women met the axe wielding warriors head on. A few moments later and the Orc had resumed his previous perch on top of the tree branch.

Below, growling cats tackled orcs head on, as their sentinel mounts drew vicious curved and thrown glaives that tore through sinew and bone in bloody arcs before returning to the wielder's hands. Others drew swords and even spears to carry out their grizzly work.

One orc grunt- the captain who had stared so disdainfully at the hunter earlier- was, at least, able to back up his arrogance. A cat rider leapt for him, sabers drawn to his throat while the rider raised her own glaive. Rather than take the blow head on, as so many of his underlings had, the captain stepped aside at the last moment. As momentum carried the cat past he used his extended fist to slam into the Kaldorei rider, hurling her from the saddle, before bringing his axe down on the saber's back.

However, others were not so lucky. Any orc grunt was more than a match for a giant cat or their scrawny rider in single combat; it was taking both on that proved overwhelming. More than one grunt managed to block the blows of a glaive with his own sword or axe only to fall to the opportunistic claws or maw of the Kaldorei's nightsaber mount.

The Elven archers had not stopped firing either and were accurate and skilled enough to reliably hit the orcs even in melee without touching their own. Indeed, at times the relationship between archers and huntresses seemed to be instinctual, with huntresses making slight movements in combat that seemed random at first, but which ultimately left a gap for a Kaldorei arrow to inevitably sail through, hitting an already occupied orc grunt in a vital area.

 _They synchronized better than Gnomish clockwork,_ Derge thought to himself.

The grunts needed someone to even the odds .

Swiftly, knowing that his time was limited, Derge drew his bow and grabbed a number of arrows from the quivers strapped to his side. Then, he fired at a skulking cat just about to leap on a fallen grunt. It still jumped, tagged mid-motion, though now it merely collapsed bodily onto the grunt rather than tearing into the downed warrior with its claws. Derge knew his work well enough to tell that the cat had been dead before it hit the ground.

Already, his hand was in motion as he drew a second arrow to full length. This one was targeted to the cat's rider who, believing no doubt that the orc below was responsibility for her mount's death, drew a knife on the pinned orc. Derge's arrow tore through her cranium like a knife through a Tele'abhim banana.

A third was in motion before the elf dropped, turning now to a decorated warrior woman who the captain of the grunts was fighting. By her attire, equipped with the slightest bit of embroidery, she was likely some sort of officer of some king. In fact she carried herself with the poise and discipline of a Darnassus Sentinel, hinting, perhaps, that Tyrande cared for neither the letter nor spirit of the treaty she had signed.

Gallywix would pay well for such a corpse. With it, he could no doubt prove of Alliance involvement and call upon Vol'jin for military aid, as well as demand reparations from the Alliance (though whether they would give that was another story).

Derge unleashed the third. Somehow, the Sentinel managed to half turn towards it, her features registering shock. But by the time she saw the arrow it was too-

A second arrow flew out from the depths of the forest. The orc's eyes widened as the bolt's truly impossible trajectory impacted with his own, knocking both projectiles out of the sky.

Hastily, the orc drew a fourth arrow however his foe was faster. Though the enemy elf could not see the orc completely in the enemy branches it seemed like he too possessed the ability to determine position by arrow angle. A projectile slammed into his leg, tearing through the leather that he wore and into the flesh beneath. Derge gritted his teeth in pain but forced himself to move, for he doubted the unseen marksmen would assume his foe's death.

An arrow passed by the space where his chest was in confirmation to that assumption and the pain in Derge's leg flared up as he jumped down and took cover behind a tree once more. Hastily, Derge drew another bolt and-

He groaned loudly in pain as a second arrow curved around the tree and drilled into his arm. Instincts took over fully as the orc dropped to prone, narrowly avoiding a second impossible arrow. He rolled over to another tree, and then another as it became apparent cover could be easily subverted. A curving arrow scraped the side of his knee as he landed.

Angry, feeling his blood begin to boil, the orc drew his arrow and as fast as was possible ducked around the tree, firing at the now visible elf.

To his surprise the elf, which already had an arrow in his hand, made no move to dodge. Instead the creature grinned in a manner that oozed conceit in every facial muscle. Then, moving his hand in a manner that was blurry to the orc's eyes, the elf fired.

The owl-fletched arrow met the wyvern-marked one head on and knocked it out of the sky. Hastily, the orc tried to draw another arrow only for the elf's second to knock it out of his hand.

The Orc leaped at once, ducking behind a slumped shredder, its machinery drooping as the slain rider still hung limply in the cockpit. Derge moved the machine's arm backwards to protest his torso and face against the inevitable curved arrow.

Moments later, a thump clashed against the shredder as the Orc proved prophetic.

"Trickshots" he mentally sneered to himself. Such vanity!

He had known other marksmen who opted to learn such techniques. All of them, without exception, had been arrogant, seeking to dazzle, impress and bask in adoration.

He snorted again, even as he drew an arrow.

It was all style, no substance. True, Derge knew he could not send arrows around trees or shoot so fast his hands were blurs. But he could shoot a dragon in the eye at a hundred meters, penetrate the steel carapace of a Stormwind Footman and, most of all….

Derge grinned as he pulled two different sets of arrows from his quiver.

…Just because Derge did not use flashy arrow techniques, did not mean he didn't have any tricks of his own to call upon.

Around him, more goblins and orcs were pouring into the combat, some of them sporting rifles. The battle would be over soon, for the Night Elves would retreat, just as they had a thousand times before.

It always started and ended this way. The sudden ambushes on ill-prepared workers, followed by brief but brutal running battles in the dimly lit canopies, followed by retreat as the Horde force swelled to overwhelming numbers. Bereft of the direct support of Darnassus, the Night Elves of Azshara had no hope of reclaiming their province. Instead a game of calculations was waged, by both sides. The Night Elves were willing to bet that, if they killed enough Goblins, the endeavor would become unprofitable, unsustainable and the Horde would be forced to back off to their coastal controlled areas. Gallywix, meanwhile, bet that there were not enough elves remaining in the province to force him to do anything.

Already, the Night Elves were hastily gathering their wounded and dead as archers aimed suppressing fire at the grunts that remained, forcing the wise to cover and killing those who were foolish. Out front and in the open stood the Kaldorei Hunter, his arms moving nearly as fast as his projectiles, unleashing volley after volley at those Horde grunts foolish enough to rush his position. Those idiotic enough to not bring a shield fell with from accurate bolts driven between eyes while those with shields were crippled by arrows to the ankle or knee.

As the Kaldorei took down his sixth such assailant, Derge sprang into action and fired his first specialized arrow . His foe saw the projectile out of the corner of his eye, shot a final grunt in the eye and then, almost lazily, arced his back forward so that the projectile sailed by harmlessly to embed itself inside a nearby tree.

The other hunter, free of foes, turned towards Derge and sneered mockingly.

Derge returned the gesture.

Behind the Kaldorei the arrow beeped- once. The elf's face momentarily contorted into confusion.

By the time of the second beep, confused elven eyes widened to horror. The Kaldorei tried to leap to the side, but he could not outrun the third beep.

The arrow, of goblin-make, exploded.

The blast caught him mid-leap. Shrapnel, microscopic in size, tore through his hind legs and the force of the explosion accelerated the elf through the air, knocking him against a tree and causing something to crack horribly. His body twisted, his lower portion contorted, Derge knew that the Kaldorei's days of bloody ambushes was over.

The elf knew that too.

A cry of vengeance, despair, hate and determination tore from the elf's throat and, with his remaining strength, the elf leveled another arrow into the bow and fired, lashing out like a mortally wounded Stranglethorn tiger in a final gesture of defiance.

Anticipating this, the Orc swayed out of the way and drew his own final arrow, the last specialized tool in his arsenal. Just as the Kaldorei was about to fire a second the orc let loose and the young elf, with a hateful smile, aimed his own arrow at the projectile already in motion.

They clashed once more, meeting head on just like their respective races had so many times over the last decade. But this time, things were different.

This time one of the arrows was no mere normal projectile. Blessed by the arcanists of the Kaldorei's cousins, the Sindorei, Derge's arcane arrow broke through the night elven projectile and continued along its path. As the elf's eyes widened it bored directly through his chest. The elf gasped, pulled at the projectile and then, at last, his hands went limp.

For long moments the orc stared at his fallen foe. Around him the fighting had ebbed as the remaining Kaldorei retreated deeper into the forest where no tracker would go. Derge's heart began to relax, his instinctual detection of danger abated.

There was only one thing left to do.

Calmly, knowing that his prey had only moments left, the orc walked over to the fallen elf. As goblins and footmen poured in from the main camp, driving off the remaining Kaldorei, Derge bent down to share the last moments of a worthy adversary.

"Go in peace to your ancestors, young one. You brought them great honor today. "

In the background cowering goblin workers, having spent much of the battle hiding in foliage, came out of their hiding places and cheered. The Elf, struggling to speak, nevertheless found his words.

"A-A-Att least one of us has. What would yours say, when they hear how y-you break into other people's homes and murder like a skulking thief? "

The elf coughed up blood. Derge shook his head; it would be shameful to show such hate for one not long for this world.

"It is not yours, elf. The Treaty of –"

The elf coughed again up blood. No, he laughed it up!

"T-t-treaty! Since when does your kind care about a treaty? We gave you no treaty to-to-to cut down either Ashevnale or Azshara yet you came in anyway. You butchered them, orc! Thousands upon thousands of living, breathing, defenseless creatures sawed and –" *Cough* "burned and " *Cough* "Cut"

The elf collapsed into a coughing fit here, blood and mucus and other, unidentified things pouring forth from his mouth. The orc, holding the elf's head with a gentleness that belied his muscular gait, bowed and let the elf have his final few moments of defiance. He knew, anyway, what the elf was cursing him for; the death of trees.

"We earned that lumber. Our right was made and claimed when Hyjall was defended through orc blood and steel. Without our aid, even your archdruid conceded all would have been lost. "

The boy was paling rapidly but still managed to speak one last time

"That is why we chose the humans over you! Your greed is insatiable. Your race already broke one world because of it, will you destroy another-"

The elf sputtered one more time before going limp. Derge bowed his head deeper, whispering a prayer to his own ancestors to mark this Kaldorei's bravery and then a second one to the elf's own ancestors, that they mark his passing and honor him in the afterlife. Then, gently, the orc closed the elf's eyes.

The Elf was wrong; the orcs did not seize out of greed- they took out of survival. Without these resources, the various orc settlements would stagnate, wither and starve. The Horde (or, at least the orcs…) took by necessity rather than out of malice and avarice.

The same could not be said be said for the Night Elves.

In a way, the Night Elves were as greedy with their trees as Gallywix with his gold- no, greedier still. At least the Trade Prince actually spent his money. The Night Elves were obsessive to the point of madness, hoarding vital resources from all and sharing with none. From what the Orc knew, the elves wouldn't chop down trees even for their allies in Stormwind. It was their madness, their compulsion that they hoarded away from the rest of the world for no other reason than to hoarde.

Other orcs decried the Elves as cowards for their overprotectiveness of the forest's fauna. In their view, the elves merely sought to use trees as a weapon of circumstance, denying the orcs lumber under the guise of religious beliefs in order to resource-starve them into submission. The Kaldorei sought to be overlords of the orcs, just as the daemons and humans had tried to be, only this time ruling through economic necessity and resource starvation rather than through corrupted blood or militarized camps. Derge knew that sentiment was false; the night elves were not conniving sociopaths, they were merely insane.

"Why bother, Hunter? He attacked from the shadows like a coward. Leave him for the wolves, I say. "

The orc hunter turned and noted with some surprise that the orc grunt captain was still alive, though how he was not sure. He must have had fifteen arrows in him!

Nevertheless, Derge shook his head

"This elf fought skillfully and bravely, if a bit foolhardily. Many of our own sung their death songs today because of him."

The captain snorted; a painful gesture, as one of the arrows seems to have been buried in his lungs.

"He fought like a coward _._ The Bow is a coward's weapon. _"_ The grunt spoke slowly, as if speaking to a difficult _child_ "These" the orc waved his hand to the trees "ambushes are the tactics of the weak against the strong. "Too scared to fight hand to hand, he slew unwary and more skilled adversaries through cheap trickery and without any risk to himself. "The grunt looked disdainfully at the hunter and Derge knew the captain was speaking not just of the elf, here.

Derge growled, detecting the implicit accusation of cowardice within the captain's words.

"I would watch your tongue, boy. Without me, you would share the same fate as the rest of your squad; dead, from their commander's idiocy."

The grunt captain snarled, the inner rage that lay at every orc's heart momentarily taking over his senses. He raised his axe-

-and Derge, his reflexes honed to a degree beyond most of his kin, swept the captain off his feet in a sweeping kick. The grunt fell, painfully, the fall driving some of the shafts in deeper.

Derge glared disdainfully at the groaning grunt before spitting and leaving with a parting insult

"Show your ancestors that you have the brains of something smarter than a rock or at least have the good grace to get yourself killed next battle. Preferably, without leading your own men to their unnecessary deaths. "

The hunter turned his back on the fallen grunt- another insult- and marched purposely back to camp, mentally adding up the numbers that he had slain. In the past, proof would be required, yet over the years he had earned enough respect among the Bilgewater Cartel that he could get away without having to provide such grotesque offerings (usually). Besides, grateful workers would report of his deeds.

Then, in the distance, a long horn roared. It came from another lumber camp, this one miles way. Another lumber camp, another elven ambush. With a sigh, the hunter unstrapped the bow from his back and took some more arrows.

Just another day in Azshara.

AN : I had a LOT of fun preparing for this chapter, which necessitated real world archers to see all their tricks, moves and strategies for efficient firing. To my surprise there are a lot of archers in the world that are capable of moves that seem to be, honestly, like stunts out of some anime. Lars Andersen is the most (in)famous of these cases, though the archery community seems bitterly divided over him due to some very controversial remarks on his part. I have also checked out other legends such as Byron Ferguson, Matt Stutzman and others.

As the people of Azeroth range from slightly superhuman (humans) to greater, I would imagine Azeroth as a world where such legendary archers are somewhat common, particularly among the elves. I think that would have the following implications

'Trick Shooting" in Real World is not only readily possible in Warcraft but seen in regular combat, as shown by class abilities and some written lore ( in A Good War a Goblin Hunter is able to shoot off at least three shots in only a few seconds with a flintlock rifle) . Thus I could see a marksman being able to perform Lars Andersen type stunts in regular combat, like I tried to show in my story.

Marksmen can really shoot their arrows stupidly fast, though this isn't reliable at long ranges

Extreme accuracy is readily possible, shown by in-game, racial traits (Elven eyes) and some written lore, like how in Vol'jin novel the human character shoots people from between floorboards accurately.

Though WOW races would be superhuman by today's standards, I believe each would have different strengths based on the racial attributes in game.

For example Elves would use a style that plays to their speed, their eyesight (which is far better than a human) and agility. I would imagine a Night Elven marksmen to be capable of parkour stunts while firing the bow faster than a human, and with a longer range. However, their arrows might not pack as much power as the high end human bows, leading the elves to rely more on magical or material compensation (Stronger than steel arrowhead, elune's blessings might help) against heavier targets.

Orcs, meanwhile, are going to be slower and less agile than an Elf's. However, where they achieve a balance in is stamina and power. Orcs use weapons that are described as 'man-sized' and, for the measurements of the Doomhammer, weigh hundreds of pounds (and that is a one hand weapon). An Orcish bow should have a draw strength that no human could ever achieve and would essentially puncture any historical armor available, even at great ranges.

Humans would be a good middle between the two, though note that humans in Warcraft are said to be (based on evidence such as humans fighting in plate for hours, scenes such as Mists of Pandaria's trailer and what I gleamed from a internal Blizzard developer) superhuman when compared to humans in our earth. Thus, I would imagine the bows of Warcraft humans to be stronger on average than humans in our time.

Also, this is my first ever Horde Story. As an Alliance player, I do find their motivations a little alien at times but I am trying to understand it further. One thing that really stood out for me was when the Horde invaded Stormsong, of Kul Tiras, in the latest expansion and was initially driven out by the Stormsong soldiers. Then, Rexxar and the Horde champion come in, leading their soldiers to 'retake our land'. This is a startling statement for by human standards the Orcs never had ANY claim to Kul Tiras and, if anything, they were the occupiers. From that, I get the sense that orcs view land as prizes to be won by contests of martial strength and valor, rather than fixed things based on ancestry and historical occupation. I tried to showcase that view, slightly, in this short story.

Now onto answers

Dios Not sure what you mean there. This is a Warhammer Fantasy/Warcraft crossover through and through.

Worm1 I look forward to the DwarfxDwarf crossover and I am already starting to conceptualize it!

As for the Scourge and Vampire Counts comparison I mulled it over long ago when I compared the Undead Legion and the Scourge. My conclusions were that the Vampire Counts had better commanders and stronger individual necromancers (barring the Lich King) but the Scourge had more common super units (Undread Dragons and Abominations, essentially) and the Plague of the Undeath gave it unique advantages when it came to converting humans.

Carre

Chapter 2: I plan on featuring Morr, later.

Chapter 4: It is similar, and I would presume many of the internal mechanics are similar, but to be fair I haven't seen many alternate universes featured in WHF novels and the few 40k ones that I have read. Maybe another reader knows otherwise.

Fifth God: Malal is unfortunately dubiously canonical, for reasons I think are related to some copy-right issue that I don't fully understand. I'll probably feature him at one point, but as of now he is just a minor Chaos God akin to the Horned Rat or Hashut…. And perhaps not as strong, as he lacks as many worshippers.

Solkanites- Well, to be fair, Azeroth humans would definitely be pretty appalled at how the Warhammer religions suppress heresy! I plan on looking at the pros and cons of each system later, as there is a lot to consider. Warhammer nations have survived millennia because of such tendencies, while the Azerothian nations have achieved stupendous success in a short time and are more dynamic in their technological/magical growth.

MadFrog2000 Thank you sir!


	7. Letter & Spirit

" _There are no friends on the Path to Glory; only stones for the powerful and cunning to tread." - Grarkax The Serpent Tongue_

The ground seethed. Malefic, riddled with magma and detritus and the ashes of a million broken souls, the Dark Lands were a place feared by any sane mind. It was a grim place, even by the standards of the world at large. Even the ground, riddled with pools of lava open and hidden alike, was a treacherous location, for a simple ill-placed step could well bring about a most horrible doom.

 _Like land, like people_ Sayl thought to himself.

Sorcery- and sorcerous eyes- revealed a far darker place. Maddened cries lurked on the wind, the ashes of their fallen forms doomed to be scattered across the hellscape for eternity. Here and there stood great heaps of bones tossed, uncaringly, into piles taller than a Dolgan mammoth. Their agony lived on, mixed into medley a dozen different races and a hundred different cultures.

This had ever been a dread place, even before the arrival of the race that currently had dominion over it.

 _What secrets do you hide, beneath these dunes of ash? What power might you give, to those deft enough to seize upon it?_

The winds howled once more, bringing a sort of stench with it. The stench of ash and sulfur and industry.

The stench of the Chaos Dwarfs.

With hordes beyond counting, Tamurkhan had swept over these lands like famished locusts over a prairie. The Dwarfs had mustered a stalwart defense yet not even their impeccable discipline could seize the day. Instead their hobgoblin slave-warriors had been put to flight, their disciplined formations annihilated, their fortress-citadels surrounded. With this achieved Tamurkhan had entered negotiations with their regional lord and though the Nurglish Warlord had ceded more than he ought, he acquired the services of one third of Dwarfs of this fortress.

Sayl sneered, confident that he could have acquired the services of _two-thirds_ of Fire Dwarfs had _he_ been leader. But that time would come, and perhaps sooner than any but he expected.

For now, he had 'summons' to attend to. He took pains to prepare, donning his warp iron cuirass, his cyclopean helm, and the enchanted sanguine robes that called magic to it like a fishing lure. The road ahead, ever treacherous, had grown yet more hazardous over the last few weeks.

The great Khagan had called together his war council, as he was wont to do, to pronounce new orders or hear advice from his 'trusted' lieutenants. It was an arena of ambitions and lies, for each lieutenant peddled 'advice' that ultimately benefitted them alone while claiming to seek glory for Tamurkhan and the Gods. Sayl knew, for he was the greatest perpetrator.

With a faint whistle, he called Nightmaw to him. From the darkest corner of his massive yurt the Chaos spawn bounded forward, each of the three different heads bellowing a different speech. One offered naught but praise, the other endless threats while the final mewed and whined endlessly, punctuated by brief periods of unstoppable mirth and mad laughter. Sayl ignored them in turn, for magical spells of binding prevented them from injuring him . With a snapped finger, the Nightmaw bent low and Sayl mounted the horse sized creature .

Gibbering, screeching and cursing, the spawn sped through camp at variable speeds. Sometimes it moved as slow as a crippled Dwarf, each movement frustrated Sayl who was forced to inflict suffering upon his mount to make it go faster. However, on other days, the Chaos Spawn achieved truly impossible speeds and could outrace the strongest horses of Tamurkhan's army.

It was through the blessing of the fickle divine that today the spawn achieved its highest speed. Sayl raced through the Dolgan camp, eying the various forms of servants and tools that comprised of his tribe. Most averted their eyes or bowed, the defiance having long since left them. Some, the lieutenants, nodded gratingly, their scheming minds no doubt plotting treachery. In fact he knew they were plotting treachery; for in his sorcerous sight he could see various futures unwind like string before him, a dizzying multitude of could-bes unfold like tapestry. Some visions were clear, others barely obscured, like seeing through a cloud of mist. Still the seer could see as plainly as others saw color who she chould ignore and who he should arrange a bad end for.

The mewling mount continued to bound past other fragments of his forces: Chanting Dolgan shamans, their magic a pittance of his own; murderous warrior women who would sacrifice their own spawn if angered enough; reavers whose simple minds were ever affixed on loot and glory; the Dolgan mammoths, the pride of the tribe who stood taller than small hills. He could read them all, their motivations and feelings, for his vision had long since surpassed the weak perceptions of mortal sight.

In the distance the camp fires of other tribes lit alight the early morning . It was good that the camps were not closer for, as much as Dolgan hated each other, they hated other tribes even more.

Sayl did not have much longer now for, in his wisdom, Tamurkhan had insisted that Dolgan place his own camp near Tamurkhan's main army encampment in a very obvious display of 'keep your enemies close'. Sayl thought he was a fool, for to him it made no difference whether his camp was in the interior or the outskirts. His schemes would weave through or around such obstacles, just as they always had.

The sorcerer muttered words of powers, prayers to the divine to guard his own breath. A wise precaution, for he now roamed Tamurkhan's camp, a cesspool of fifth and disease as any in the world. Nurgle's chosen son luxuriated in it the way a normal man did with women or gold. Unfortunately, he was also far more generous than any man with those things was, much to the displeasure and ill-health those who did not bear the plague-lord's blessing. But Sayl knew that was the point, for the desperation of infection and contagion, the shame of inhibition and weakness, could drive even hardened beserkers of the north into despair. And with despair, came pleas to the one who fed off of it.

Indeed, to Sayl's otherworldly sight, the camp hung with those emotions, like mist and stiff air in the Ghost Hells swamplands through which they had recently traveled.

By Sayl's count, no less than three powerful chaos champions had changed allegiances' since the march began and doubtless more would by the end of the campaign.

Sayl's tugged his reins hard, directing Nightmaw to avoid a puddle of firth. Composed of fluids, excrement and who knows what other foul things, such pools were common in the camps of Nurgle, for it merely amplified the already fetid atmosphere. As Nightmaw ran past a tiny little daemon- a nurgling- arose from the murk to backpedal and grin at him.

The charms and wards on his armor began to glow a tiny bit brighter as they were forced to contend with ever greater amounts of decay. Hastily, he urged Nightmaw on once more, faster now. Nurgle warriors, catching the sorcerer passing, dared to chortle and giggle at the sight. Sayl made sure to try to mark and memorize their faces for future reprisal once the campaign was over. There would be a lot of reckoning indeed.

Finally, he reached the central yurt that housed Tamurkhan's throne and dwelling. It was a massive complex, easily the size of one of those dilapidated temples Sayl have come across in the east. Yet it lacked their charm. It was bloated, ugly and ruined, leaking strange fluids from the walls and ceiling that served as a living metaphor of everything that made Nurgle so abhorrent. Dismounting Ngihtmaw, not caring to tie down the Chaos Spawn nor who it would consume while he was inside, Sayl entered Tamurkhan's lair.

Two rings lined this room of the abode. The larger outer circle was illuminated only just by green torchlight, bestowing an atmosphere of barely seen menace. In the strange half-light various forms lurked, some humanoid and some barely so, every one of them some great champion or chaos lord of legend. Sayl knew the combined list of atrocities they had committed would line every inch of this abode and he knew that all of them, each and every man, woman and worse thing here, wanted to add to that tally. Indeed he could see those all those deeds, hung like tapestry over the wall, in dizzying detail. As hardened as the Chaos sorcerer was, some of the most foul of those atrocities made even him start to feel slightly nauseous.

All of the chaos champions stood cautiously around the middle circle, a bright oval the size of a mammoth illuminated fully by the green light that shone malefic from underneath. Those that found themselves in its gaze had the full attention of the occupant of the farthest side of the room, he who sat, in the midst of a vision, on a throne of detritus and death. Those who stood on that dais would know either glory or doom and usually fairly messily in the case of the latter.

Of course the most skilled could turn would be doom to glory. Sayl knew this, for Sayl himself had done this. Only a week ago he had been practically dragged before the Maggot Lord, Khazyk the Befouled- Tamurkhan's unofficial execution- poised to chop him down for the crime of leading much of the Horde's Beastkin in a futile assault on a Cathayan outpost against orders. Sayl had laughed his defiance and then, before the astonished onlookers, dared the gods themselves to strike him down if even one of his Dolgan had participated in combat. They hadn't, for Sayl had already anticipated the slaughter that would result from the cloven feet of the Beastkin kicking the Celestial dragon. He just wanted to watch it play out without personal consequence.

And he had.

Since Sayl had invoked the gods' names and survived their potential wrath, he had walked away free. For Tamurkhan to order his execution then would to go against the commandments of the gods themselves and risk their wrath.

Their animosity had persisted of course.

It could be heard from the moment he entered from the baleful growls of the Beastkin. From a dozen different forms their remaining leaders cursed him, each promising a crude but no doubt messy form of revenge. Sayl laughed cruelly, the staff strapped to his side glowing faintly, daring them to make a move. If Sayl's magic did not kill them, then Tamurkhan would, for edict demanded that only Tamurkhan had control over the fate of his lieutenants and to defy that, would be to defy the Maggot Lord himself.

Others snarled and cursed. Sayl knew he was not popular and relished the hate. Let them curse and loathe. There was nothing better than an impotent enemy, for they could do nothing. Still others, those of gods rival to the Plague Lord, looked at him with a mixture of mistrust, wariness and need. Alone among the gathered warlords he had defied Tamurkhan and lived to tell about it. He could be a leader of the opposition, if he so chose, and already schemes rolled through Sayl's mind likeboulders down a mountain. Their need presented opportunity.

Only one group has no reaction to Sayl's arrival; the Chaos Dwarfs. Instead, they looked at him coolly, their darkly twinkling red eyes no doubt appraising him just as he had appraised the others in the tent long ago. Doubtless, they would hear rumors before long, stories of Sayl's past. For now, though, he held an advantage, as Sayl had been the one sent to negotiate with the Ashen King. Doubtless, Tamurkhan had only bestowed such an honor out of the hope that the he would be gruesomely slain if he offended the Fire Dwarfs, a feat that was notoriously easy to accomplish.

Once again, the khagan had underestimated him.

In bold strides the Dolgan Chieftain walked, then took his position next to the Chaos Dwarf contingent. Silent Dwarf bodyguards surrounded Drazhoath, all clad in glowing hellforged armor and face masks that left an expressionless void. Each of them carried halberds twice the size of themselves and, despite the fact their faces could not be seen, each seemed to radiate hate and contempt of such intensity that it began to make the magically attuned Sayl feel noxious. Though they made no movements to their weapons, Sayl had no doubt they could reach for them in a moment if they desired.

Their master gazed upwards at Sayl, his beady little eyes scrutinizing the sorcerer calculatedly. Doubtless, he realized what the sorcerer was trying to convey to the rest here. Already, they knew that Sayl was a hated, distrusted figure and the air of intrigue hung around him like a cloak around a dark wanderer of the night. Yet there was dark amusement in his eyes as well, as if they were watching the intrigues of children with their petulance, impatience and impertinence. A Chaos Dwarf intrigue, from what little Sayl knew of their people, often took centuries to come to fruition.

To Sayl, that only spoke to the superiority of his people, that man- whether scion of the north or weak southerner- had managed to conquer and dominate the world in far less time than the vanishing elder races.

Still, he let none of that slow. Instead, he bowed, low enough to incline respect but high enough to not be taken as a sign of submission. Drazoath's face wrinkled in slight irritation, the intrinsic desire for dominance that lay in every son of Zharr's heart naturally offended by Sayl's independence. The Chaos Dwarf irked his head towards the sorcerer, as if forced to acknowledged an irritant fly.

Inside, Sayl simmered from the insult yet, on the outside, continued his ebullience, confident that his mask was greater than even those of the Zharr Infernal Guard.

As the other warlords resumed their petty intrigues, speaking to one another in deadly whispers and with false sincerity, Sayl made to engage his Dwarf acquaintance. Instead the Dwarf spoke first, cutting to the point

"I see why you were sent to bargain with me. I too send the scheming and disposable of my kind to treacherous ends. "

Sayl considered, before taking the air of one lightly offend by the words, yet with a thin enough veneer to where he knew Drazoath would see through it.

"Oh Lord of Ash, I am disappointed you view me in such a manner. Before the gods I pledged my comradeship and common cause, just as you."

Drazoath snorted; a harsh noise that sounded like steam escaping from a broken Dawi valve.

"I pledged my legion, sorcerer, on a tome of flesh and sinew, recorded in the name of my Dark Father. In return I demanded payment by blood, souls and riches . I will receive all and more besides, and in return I will honor my agreement _to the letter_. "

"But not the spirit, Dark Lord, Master of the Infernal Hells? Is this agreement made with the same intent as your previous oath to see the Black Citadel protected against all threats?"

Drazhoath looked up, affixing the Chaos sorcerer with a look of loathing, disgust and, though the Dwarf took pains to hide it, surprise. His previous oath was evidently not common knowledge, then. But no secret had yet been able to hide from Sayl's seercraft. If the future was murky, the present shaded, the past was deceptively clear and Sayl had gleamed much during his dark moments alone in the deepest recesses of his yurt. Even from Dwarf-kin, who measured stages of life in whole human lifespans.

Sayl allowed himself a smirk, confident that the Dwarf could not see through his closeted helm, covered except for his baleful sorcerous gaze.

While the Dwarf could not see the smirk, he nevertheless could detect it. He snarled an act that caused his bodyguards to change slightly in posture, as if they expected their master to order great violence at a moment's notice.

"Still your slanderous tongue, sorcerer, before I take it and toss it into a slave latrine! The oaths of the sons of fire are bound in iron! The Black Citadel is better defended than any realm outside the Plains of Zharr! Even this howling throng of mad-beasts and madder-umgi would have broken against it like ashen wind before the mountain! I violate no oath to be here, for I have seen it defended, in accordance to my pledge given to the High Prophet before you were a gleam of your father's eye, umgi."

 _Touchy_ , he thought to himself. But he was confident his initial assertion was correct, for through his sorcerous gaze he could see ambition and resentment hang over the Fire Dwarf like sins clothed the soul. Sayl, no stranger to reading such inner motivations, guessed that the oath before the High Priest was not willingly given and Drazoath was no more content with his current place than Sayl was with his. As Dwarfs –corrupted or not- took their oaths to maddening extremes he had been forced to carry out such an oath, to the letter, yet had eagerly longed for an opportunity to escape it. Tamurkhan had provided that opportunity.

In a way, Sayl mused, the Chaos Dwarf's motivations were the polar opposite of his own. When Tamurkhan had swarmed through his lands like a unstoppable horde of locusts, Sayl had indeed pledged comradeship and common cause, seeking glory, riches and arcane knowledge from the civilized lands, though, at the time, he had been unaware of exactly which southland nation Tamurkhan intended to raid. In a way Sayl followed the 'spirit' of the expedition, the desire for glory and loot, but not the letter, for he held no more loyalty to Tamurkhan the Plague Lord than he had Schalkain the Vile, Orbudical the Foresworn, his very own parents or the numerous other individuals Sayl had used over the years.

Yet a thread wound them both, whether the dwarf admitted it or not. Neither was fully committed to the either the Ruinious Horde nor his commander.

To the dwarf before him, Sayl switched tactics.

"Perhaps that is so, son of Ash. Surely there is much profit to be gleamed from this expedition? It is said that the sons of Sigmar possesses magical and technological lore beyond any other nation of man save the Celestial Empire. "

The sound of whistling steam once more; Drazhoath had snorted.

"Sigmar's sons are beyond them too. Mightiest of all your kin, Umgi, southlander or not. "

Sayl shook his head

"The southlanders are weak, Ashen Lord. Lacking in will and intellect. Cowering like sheep before their castle lords and only mustering defense when herded together in large numbers. And of those lords, the Celestial Empire- Cathay- has proven the most numerous and formidable. "

"In slave stock, they are weaker, that is true. They have also persisted millennia like grobi-filth while your failed tribes pass like dust in the wind-swept steppes every year. The eastern empire has some umgi trickery with their duality lore of magic, their flailing limbs and legions to shame any urk. But the Empire was tutored on the knees of races better than yours –the elgi in arts of mysticism and the –'

The Dwarf paused here, glowering, and for a second Sayl almost jumped back instinctively, for the hatred that his soul-self exuded exceeded any save the denizens of Beyond. The Dwarf literally glowed as hot and brilliant as magma with pure hate. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, the Dwarf spat out a word

"-False kin taught them the arts of craftsmanship, shoddy as they are. Better teachers resulted in better umgi, more powerful than your other tribes. Though they are still fit for nothing other than slaves, like all your kind."

Sayl ignored the insult, though he idly wondered what an 'elgi' was. He was fascinated by the revelation that there were other groups of dwarfs besides the Dawi Zharr. The Norscan traders had, indeed, been right. Still, Sayl dearly wished the Horde had been traveling to Cathay, not the Empire, and was not yet ready to cede the argument.

"Helped along by your 'false kin' or not the legends detailing the invasions of Sigmar's sons have resounded the world and back, while none have gone far into the Dragon Emperor's empire in over a thousand years. "

"Cowards" Drazhoath growled "who hide behind their 'Grand Bastion' and rely on it for their salvation. Without it, their nation would crumble like matchsticks. "

"And yet" Sayl said evenly " none have succeeded in breaking those great gates." Sayl decided to needle "Not even your people, if the rumors are true."

Rather than scowl, or return an insult, Drazhoath stunned the sorcerer by smiling, wholly and truly, though malice lay at end of the expression. His two word response, sent the sorcerer's mind spinning with unseen implications .

"Not yet."

Before Sayl could ask, another voice interrupted the discussion

"SILENCE!" A deep voice rumbled from the throne, interrupted all discussion.

Like the moment after a thunderclap eerie silence immediately settled across the pavilion, none willing to gainsay the Pestilent Lord's will. The Dark Lord stood from his throne of bones and bile, his ogre girth threatening to sink it into the rotted muck of the earth. Slowly, with the awkwardness of a awaking giant, the plague lord walked down from it, each step a soft quake that could be heard throughout the yurt.

Finally, when he had reached the end of the steps, the plague lord stopped. With a dictator's eye, he surveyed the captains and lieutenants around him as if trying to detect who was loyal and who was a traitor. In that, as with many other subjects, Tamurkhan was a fool, Sayl thought to himself. Every champion here was loyal to their own destiny and a natural traitor to the fate of others. Even Khazyk the Befouled would spurn his master if it allowed him to take another step to glory.

"You have been summoned before me this day to exalt in our master's glory. Bask in it! For Nurgle, Grandfather of all, has blessed me with visions of doom and glory, of war and plague brought to those who had never known it! "

The pavilion thundered with much applause, feet stamping, howls and brays- the standard response to promises of future glory. Only a few were able enough of mind to detect the inherent inconsistency of that statement. Next to him Drazoath's eyes narrowed fractionally.

Convinced as he was of the celestial empire's superiority even Sayl- lord of a tribe half a world apart from the Empire- had heard tales of it. No one, not even those that held it in the most contempt, could deny that it was a realm that had seen much war and plague.

"In my dreams I saw a land covered by forest end to end, of vibrant life left horrifically unmolested by the Grandfather's touch! Above it all stood a tree that pierced the sky and that could carry our plagues to the heavens themselves! It was a land unlike any I have ever walked in my lifetime. A land that was far too vibrant to be in the decaying Empire and indeed it wasn't."

This time the silence was total, judgmental and absolute. In civilized lands, such silence could be punctuated by whispering, signs of obvious plotting and gossip. Not here. Not among the scions of ruin. None trusted each other enough to do that. Still minds turned and schemes were rewritten among the most easily adaptable. Among those of less malleable minds….

Chaos champions commanded through deeds more than words, and so long as the lord of the host brought success, his idiosyncrasies were tolerated. However, Tamukhan's statement challenged even that general rule. How many lords and cult leaders and beastkin and worse things had been drawn to Tamurkhan's star like moths to a flame, binding their destinies to his so that they could reap in collective glory? Many, including Sayl himself, had left their previous past as a means to elevate themselves and had celebrated at the opportunity to invade Sigmar's cursed realm, for it was well known the extent the gods despised it.

And now, to have that opportunity snatched away, at the whims of a bad dream…

They wouldn't rebel of course. Tamurkhan was too powerful, his nurglite followers too numerous and the sense of destiny the man carried still potent. Moreover this wasn't even the first time such a whimsical dream had occurred. But this was another seed of doubt that could be cultivated, another stone of the path to treachery that Sayl could help formant, if he wished. Sayl could see it, his demonic vision showing gestating fruits that would one day be ripe for picking.

To his surprise, Sayl found himself calling out "Where too, oh lord? Who now is the wrath of your host directed against? The Dwarfs- the false ones ("He glanced at Drazhoath here)- of the mountains? The gilded cities of Ind? The legions of the Dragon Emperor who so recently shamed us? "

Leaving out that he had orchestrated said defeat from afar, Sayl deeply hoped the legion would be sent against the Celestials.

"No!" Tamurkhan stated dangerously, almost half-roared .Evidently he had not forgotten the incident at Ashtar, either. "None of those, serpent tongued! The gods, all of them, demand- DEMAND- The destruction of those who never set foot on this earth. "

The silence was broken by involuntary gasps and Sayl felt his eyes widen in shock. Was Tamurkhan truly mad enough to march on the gods themselves? For surely they were the only ones who could make such a description? The horde feared no mortal foe, but an immortal one was beyond their abilities.

"I speak not of the god-realm" spoke Tamurkhan, evidentially able to guess what his commanders were thinking "but of a new world entirely, full of new mortals to be slain and land to be corrupted in Nurgle's name."

Many looked at Tamurkhan like he was mad, but Sayl was not one of them. This was odd, to be sure, but stranger things had happened in the chaos wastes. He suspected that if this was an army of one of the Southern nations, there would be mutiny within the hour.

"Unbaraki!" roared a new voice, this one deeper, hardened by centuries of use. "A pact was formed between us, human. An oath you signed in blood. My warmachines would break open the walls of your city and, in return, I would be rewarded enough. My god demands you keep your oath, umgi. "

Tamurkhan turned slowly to the Dwarf. If any warlord of chaos had spoken to him in such a manner, he would have ensured their messy and painful demise. Against the Dwarfs, however, things were more complicated, as the Dawi Zharr were technically not his subjects, but allies. A fight with them would only serve to hurt Tamurkhan's cause, not help. It might even bring the wrath of the Zharr Empire proper, of which Drazhoath was just an outpost commander.

Tamurkhan thus spoke haltingly to the Chaos Dwarf, whose bodyguards had already begun to form a protective circle around him.

"The deal spoke of a city left unnamed and a city you shall take. " Tamurkhan paused here, in Sayl's eyes for dramatic affect " The visions our grandfather saw fit to bless me had more than just forests and trees. Monuments the size of mountains, large towns of races unknown and, in the midst of it all, a city beyond the size of any I have yet seen. A city untouched by millennia, hidden away by magics unknown to even my god. That is your prize, Ash Lord. To pluck a fruit a fruit that has ripened ten thousand years!"

Many, particularly among the Nurglite congregation, were awed by such a prize. Already, he could see their schemes roll out before his eyes like images. Drazhoath just folded his arms

"I have none but your word, plague-lord. You speak of madness, yet among your breed madness is currency. "

Tamurkhan laughed then- a large, hearty laugh that, to Sayl's daemonic senses, seemed to shake the entire world.

"Madness? Madness!? MMaaAAdness!?" Tamurkhan collapsed into a coughing fit here, though it was born of mirth rather than true choking. The plague lord rolled his head towards the floor, out of sight. . Sayl rolled his eyes- and then nearly jumped, as Tamurkhan 's head snapped up, all mirth gone and in its place a fierce scowl " I've worn more bodies than you have owned slaves, overseer! In a thousand mortal lifetimes I have taken a million lives with my own hand! By my blade I have brought death of countless empires and petty usurpers, would be emulators of my sire whose name is borne across a hundred million at this day! "Tamurkhan stood up taller, walking to the Chaos Dwarf, who projected a veil of apathy easily pierced by those who could see beyond mortal sight. The Chaos Dwarf's Ironsworn bodyguards drew closer, though Tamurkhan did not come in range of their axes " Madness is greatness, lord of ash, and when I, the mightiest of the four sons, promise glory beyond imagining, I deliver. " His last words were to the general crowd, who now cheered enthusiastically.

Drazhoath, however stood silent, his mind no doubt reeling from the same implications that Sayl struggled to process. Though his sight could see a person's fast, Tamurkhan's was oddly closed off to him. Could the warlord's father truly be-

" Madness, as I say, but perhaps you are right as well. Madness can be turned to greatness." The Dwarf then shrugged "or, if not, our caravan will travel far enough behind your force so as to not share your folly, should it be the case. "

Tamurkhan grunted angrily and turned to the rest but-

"I am not finished, Son of Nurgle. You honor the letter of the deal, yes, but not the spirit of it. In Hashut's name I pledged my host not only for tribute, slaves and eternal glory but to humble the mockeries of engineering marvels that Sigmar's folk are said to possess, those war machines some claim can match the craftsmanship of my people. –That- was the unsaid deal. Through your wild venture, that opportunity is lost. Recompense is required"

A pause here, as the Chaos crowd fell deathly silent. Sayl could taste their mounting anticipation for blood like he could taste rain that fell from the sky.

"I want my promised spoils tripled. "

Tamurkhan spun angrily, his Ogre form making the movement sound like a thunderclap.

"You will receive nothing more than what we bargained for, you greedy little imp! Speak to me in such a manner again and I will add your hollowed-out skull to my thrown. "

Drazhoath gritted his teeth and the Ironsworn leader of the bodyguards, drew his blunderbuss pistol. Internally, Sayl groaned- even he knew to be careful when leveling insults against a dwarf.

"Attack me and earn the ire of the entire Darklands, human. Even my greatest nemeses will march lock-step to destroy you, for no lesser race is allowed to best the Dark Father's chosen. Through fire and toil of our numberless multitude of slaves, you and yours will be brought low. Even if we have to bleed our thralls dry to do it. "

Tamurkhan, in anger, drew his sword and, a beat later, so did the other Nurglites around the tent, followed somewhat hesitantly by champions of the other gods.

Sayl, seer and diviner both, recognized this moment as a flashpoint.

The fate of the expedition hung on a precipice.

Sayl had no doubt that the Chaos Dwarf was telling the truth. He would die here, and his forces assembled in the camps beyond would follow him, but they would take quite a few with them. Moreover, every man and women in this expedition would be marked for the rest of their days. Though the Dawi Zharr hated each other with an inhuman intensity, they shared a common sense of superiority over the other races. A major loss would be seen as a blow to that pride, and the race as a whole. And Sayl had no doubt they would find out, for the Chaos Dwarfs had seers as well, and more than once during his rituals the Dolgan chieftain had felt unseen presences just out of sight that faded upon his turning, calculating and cruel minds projecting themselves across the realm of souls.

Likewise, if Tamurkhan gave in, he would be seen as weak by mortal and divine eyes both. The expedition would flounder among discontent and bold uprisings, eventually whittling down the force to a shadow of its former self. Though Sayl, in the deepest, most closeted parts of his mind sought the fall of Tamurkhan, even sought to slowly breed dissent, this was too soon. Let Tamurkhan find his glory so Sayl could claim it or, failing that, cut his losses and claim what glory he could.

And thus it was he, the expedition's most treacherous member, who walked forward to save it, seizing attention from both Dwarf and Nurgle warlord. He who was publically known as the faithless spoke and sought a solution…in good faith.

" I Sayl, propose a compromise, if you, Maggot-King and you, Ashen Lord would hear it.

He had both of their attention, and both of their ire. Neither appreciated his intrusion and Sayl knew, at that moment, his life was likely in greater jeopardy than either of those before him.

It was especially true of Tamurkhan, who had already acquired a profound hatred and mistrust of Sayl.

"Speak, serpent. I will hear your words and, if they are not to my liking, they will be your last. "

Sayl turned to him and spoke boldly, for strength would serve him at this moment.

"They will be not to your liking but you will hear them all the same, for the gods would turn all their hate upon you if this expedition collapses under its own weight as it seems poised to do. " Sayl took a breath here and spoke what might be his final words "Compensation is required, plague-lord. Drazhoath is not your subject such as I, he is your ally. Moreover, he is a necessary ally, for plague and pestilence cannot as easily rot walls as Dawi machines can knock them down. However"

Sayl turned to Drazhoath here

"Triple compensation when no services have been rendered is truly madness. So far, our lord's glorious legion has benefitted the Dawi Zharr. It was the might of this horde that broke the Black Orcs of the Scalded Delta and it was through the glorious Pox-Lord's will that the Nightmare Dragon- she who had plagued your realm for centuries- was driven away. Only glory and fortune has our immortal lord brought you and you stand on the precipice of gaining more than any of your rivals could ever dream."

Drazhoath, rather than convinced, sneered

"Your words prattle, lie and embroider, serpent tongue. Everything that has been accomplished through your effort could have been achieved by us through other, admittedly less expedient means. You saved profit, nothing more. A surplus lost by the whimsical change of objective. No, your pathetic attempt of compromise aside, I will have my recompense."

Sayl felt himself grind his teeth involuntarily. He had underestimated the greed of the Dwarfs; not even a scion of Slaanesh was as obsessed as them. Likewise, he could feel Tamurkhan's eyes on his form. The Plague Lord would make Sayl suffer for his impudence.

The Dolgan chief tried a different track. If greed was all that this little imp cared for than he would appeal solely to greed.

"What will you do if the plague-lord neither pays your recompense nor slays you here and now." Sayl asked experimentally.

Drahoath looked as the Dolgan like he was an exceptionally slow child, or a dumb slave that would soon be sacrificed to a hell machine "I will leave. Take my forces and return to the Black Fortress. "

Sayl pounced, laughing as he began

"Then you would be returning as a pauper, your name a by-word among your people for foolishness."Drazhoath growled, but Sayl gave him no opening "What the plaguelord offers you is the chance to despoil a new world. The slaves you take, the secrets you plunder will be wholly new among your kind, while any claims of military victory against the Empire would run into concurrent claims of triumph."

Sayl figured that was true as, rarely, in the annals of his people a Chaos Dwarf force would come through his lands to strike at distant Cathay. He presumed the other was true in the opposite direction.

Continuing "Here you set the example others, in their dark climb, will follow. Your rivals will curse the glory you earn and your prestige in the eyes of your god will rise even as our lord will rise among his. Or" Sayl paused here" abandon this crusade out a dispute over an utterly trivial matter. Destroy your own rise to glory. Earn the ire of your Dark Father for denying him dominion over another world. Let your name share the same amount of contempt in your language as Unbaraki and Wazzock. "

Drazhoath snarled and for a moment, it appeared that the Dwarf would charge Sayl. The sorcerer's staff flickered ominously in return. Then, slowly, steadying himself and with great reluctance, Drazhoath seemed to grind his teeth in reluctant assent. This discussion wasn't over, but he seemed to acknowledge, however reluctantly, Saly's point. Hatefully, the Dwarf turned to Tamurkhan.

"What is the name of this …new land we march on, Plague Lord?"

Tamurkhan, his eyes narrowed and fixated on Sayl in obvious distrust, stood still for a long while. Then, in a deep utterance, he spoke a single word, a name that would define all of their fates from that point forward.

"Azeroth"

AN Hopefully this chapter provides some key clues on where the next arc will go.

Now, onto the comments!

Thehappyvampire Thank you very much and I am in agreement with you. The martial, survivalist culture is difficult for the Alliance to understand, much less deal with, while the attitudes of the Alliance are incorrectly perceived as 'soft' and 'weak' by certain members of the Orcs. It is one of the many reasons why peace between the Alliance and Horde are so fleeting.

Fenrir44 That is a fun scenario to imagine and I look forward to addressing Asrai reactions in the far future. I think, if you zone-switched them (meaning you placed Athel Loren when Night Elves would be) the forest of Athel Loren would respond with far greater ferocity and even potency than the Night Elves, but suffer in options as they would lack the rest of the Alliance to back them up (Asrai are kind of bad at long term alliances). I would expect the Forsaken to eventually deploy their cheap option in frustration and that would be decisive (from the Wood Elf novel series, we can see that a plague is really effective against their lands).

DIOS de la Nada It is to my eternal gratitude that they patched that embarrassing thing with Nathanios. Now, Nathanios has to be powered up by two Prime Valk'yr to not die instantly against Tyrande and doesn't even manage to inflict wounds himself on her. He runs away at the last second mortally wounded, which IMO is a better showing of Tyrande's strength. I still don't like what they did with Summermoon and Sira though.

Carre Regarding Ressurection it is helpful to think of two types of death : Cardiac (Heart) and Brain Death.

The first is cardiac death or clinical death or the sudden, unexpected cessation of the heart. In this state blood stops pumping and limbs begin to suffer drastic damage from the lack of circulation. However, the most important organ, the brain, begins to die after 4-6 minutes and after that time full recovery is generally impossible (though exceptions occur, such as frozen environments slowing down the rate of decomposition). Doubtless, the various races of Warcraft could have different rules with their heart, and some might be recoverable for longer (or shorter) timeframes than a human. Thus, overall I believe the six minute rule of resurrection to be roughly accurate in-game, though lore-wise exceptions would exist depending on the severity of the fallen's wounds. I don't think it is lore-breaking to imagine that the Holy Light, Druidism or some other form of magic can do what normal doctors today, or even someone performing CPR can, and restore someone whose heart has stopped back to life. I honestly think Anduin, in the trailer, reviving Alliance soldiers who had been recently slain is perfectly plausible.

The second is brain death and reviving a figure from that is trickier. Outside of death magic(which alters a person in mind and body and is a rather flawed form of resurrection), the occasions where a long-dead person have been resurrected are extraordinarily rare and generally require a ritual. For example, in Natalie Seline's case her servants had to preserve her body perfectly for years and then send a champion out to the shadowlands to manually find her soul and bring it back. You also have rare spirit healers and the Illidari PC, who can canonically resurrect thanks to his or her soul being tied to the Nether like a demon.

Morr would probably object to the second type of resurrection but I would think he would be okay (perhaps reluctantly so) with Clinic death resurrection, which is basically what CPR or Defibilitaors do today. That said, in Warhammer necromancers resurrect the dead all the time and he can hardly stop them, so even if he wasn't okay with light based practioners resurrecting people there is little he can do about it. Perhaps less so, since Warcraft magic users don't go to the Realm of Souls when they die but the Shadowlands.

About Malice, in olden lore he was but It is established that olden lore is not canonical. I would say, if he is included at all in the story, that Malice has the *potential* to be the most dangerous but hasn't achieved it yet.

Madfrog2000 Heh you mean like on a radio? Hmm, it could be done as goblins do have that….

TheJackinati275 Thank you for this sir, I really enjoy these analysis! It makes my day! Bear in mind that this is a new topic to me, so I am trying to learn here and ask for your patience

From my research, the heaviest known draw weight was around 200 lbs (by Mark Stetton) while historically the two most successful bows, the English Longbow and the Mongolian Composite Bow, had draw weights of around 90-110 and 160 respectively. I had it in my head that Orcs could regularly equal or succeed the Mongolian draw, while the largest bows would be heavier than Mr. Stetton's. You are right that, in the case of the latter, the Draw Weight would be disandvanteous for bows that don't have some magically enchanted or unique material and that the Mongolians had unique compositions for their bows that gave them such power. However, magically enchanted or unique materials are not too uncommon in WOW and some of the clans are shown to have sophisticated craftsmanship, even before the Iron Horde (the Blackrock for one).

Historically, longbows could penetrate steel armor though only with special arrowheads that I would imagine are within Blackrock's capacity to make…and probably the main horde, as secrets spread as clans diffused after the Second War. That said, I did not consider that the Footman might have armor well superior to any real world equivalent. Magically enchanted arrows would probably still do the trick, and I am under the impression that arcane magic has disintegrative properties (from Tides of War, where it disintegrated everything in Theramore) however I am now more uncertain that Derge could pull off his boas with regular arrows. That said, according to Voljin: Shadows of the Horde, monks can carve through a steel carapace with their fists, so it is not out of the question.

This is an aside to the main point but I want to detail it here, as I am forming some thoughts on how Stormwind armor vs. Orcs plays out.

I think it's a fair argument to say that, historically, the Orcish Horde recognized the lack of effectiveness of archers against steel. That is why they seemed to focus more on their own brute strength, rather than hunting prowess. Now, in the real world (at least based on my research) bludgeoning weapons had a limited effectiveness against plate armor, but were generally considered a better option to bring than a sword . The thickest points were still invulnerable but on the weaker points could crush, deal internal injuries etc.

Now with an Orc, there are a couple of things to mention here.

One is the Doomhammer was estimated to weigh 250-300 pounds by blacksmith Tony Swatton, though I have heard estimates stating that it might weigh quite a bit less with different materials. Either situation is extremely impressive as the Doomhammer was a one handed Orc weapon, meaning the orcs themselves had the strength to wield this. This is shown in both the movies and in game somewhat, where orcish weapons tend to be cruder, heavier but larger by far ("a Third or even Half a man's size", if we go by AU History of the First War from the novels" ) . Add to this that Garrosh boasts to Anduin in War Crimes that he can "yank his arm off" with ease and in the movie Blackhand, a stronger than average orc, nevertheless lifts up a packhorse without too much difficulty (1200 lbs) and hurls it many yards.

So between their abnormally heavy weapons and abnormal strength this could explain how the Orcs dealt with Stormwind steel- they simply crushed the man inside. Armor might still help the man inside against some blows, but not enough to negate the orcs offensive abilities completely. It might also explain why Horde Axethrowers were considered effective, if we assume Trolls are somewhat superhuman (though not as much as the orcs) with abnormal weapons and strength to hurl such weapons at powerful speeds.

I am aware of the criticism of Lars Andersen and took that into account. I agree with the general assessment that trick shots were not too useful in Warfare overall. However, Warcraft is a fantasy verse where trick shots seem to be incorporated into both game and lore. An example being that, in Good War, the goblin who accompanied Sindorei rogue Lorash was shown to unleash a barrage of bullets with stupendous speed, enough for Lorash to remark upon it. It is a case of the Marksman Hunter ability "Rapid Fire" being translated into lore.

I will note in Warcraft that the cost of arrows and the like are either much less than in the real world for various reasons (commonality of materials, excessive stockpiling, literally growing arrows in the case of druids etc) or the governments of Azeroth simply do not care and are willing to pay the extra mile for war. One, or both, of these reasons would explain why both the Alliance and Horde can afford not only a stupendous amount of ammunition but to cloth their entire army in steel (Stormwind), deploy tanks and aircraft everywhere, sustain a intercontinental system of bases and other costs that would bankrupt most ancient or modern empires.

Though I would like to play around with that I can't change it, much, as the vast Alliance/Horde military seems to be integral to the setting.


	8. Campfire Reflections

" _When they die, we die- one piece of us at a time."-Xandor the Morose_

Truth be told she had been warned of this. Years ago, when she was just a wide eyed youth in Auberdine setting out across one of the first regular Stormwind galleons between her homeland and theirs. Her mother had come to her just as she set foot on that bulky vessel. It was a surprising visit, given the bitter commune fights of the preceding weeks. Her blunt advice still rang out across the years.

 _"We Kaldorei are trees among endless fields of flowers. Even with the Gift of the Aspects gone, the flowers will bloom and wilt a thousand times before the tree begins to die. "_

 _She had clasped hands then, a rare gesture of affection from her._

 _"Make friends with the other races if you wish" she had spoken softly "but, for your own sake child, do not become attached. They will pass like seasons while you are left to mourn in their wake. Only in our own species can we find relationships that last the cruel hand of time."_

Kindi had shook off the words of course, just like her mother and father and all her relatives up to her seven times still living grandmother had ignored her own views.

 _("We have centuries and millennia of accumulated wisdom, child. We know how the world works. You don't yet.")_

She was sick to death of the lot of them, with their wisdom-worship and tortoise-slow pace and their myopic fixation on ten millennia old history at the expense of anything to come. The world had moved on from Azshara's days, and they should too.

Now, years after she booked a ship to Stormwind to start a new life, she reflected that her mother had been right about mortality- and wrong as well.

She had made friends- a gaggle of outcasts, misfits and oddballs that she would come to see as a new community, greater and more open than the old. For the first glorious seasons they wandered the scope of the known world, achieving deeds great and small as they sought to resolve the conflicts that awaited in the world and those that lurked within their own souls.

However, just as forewarned, spring and summer faded to fall and winter- seasons of life to those of death. New threats emerged, some vaguely hinted during that brief golden year and others the result of some terrible new revelation. She, her friends and the rest of their assorted kind rose to meet them again and again. Like a Tsunami _(she winced momentarily)_ Azeroth's armies and champions overcame and crushed these threats again and again- yet in doing so, a little bit of themselves was left behind.

Few of her friends were left now- and only one with her now.

Even as she allowed her mind to wander to its typical forlorn place, air breezed through her hair at such a pace that it was almost like she was in a Stranglethorn storm once more. The ground blurred beneath her, reminding her of looking out from the Deeprun Tram. The endless forests moved on by as if they were swaying bystanders getting left behind. Yet this was not from any byzantine Gnomish artifice- her feet were as natural as they could be.

Under ideal conditions, the druidess was confident she could have run a hundred fifty mile distance in a single night. Perhaps two hundred if she pushed herself and without having to revert to one of her mammalian forms. Of course, that assumed she actually knew where she was going, that she wasn't waylaid as what occurred depressingly often on Azeroth and-

-She turned backwards, fixing a far figure with a gaze that was both one of exasperation and affection-

If... she wasn't currently paired with what was perhaps the slowest person on Azeroth. Mirth began to overtake the melancholic mood that had gripped her for much of the morning. In fact it filled her, the way anyone receiving good news on a terrible day would.

Said person's face was panting heavily, embarrassingly, at the exhaustion his menial efforts had brought. This was the twentieth time, today, that she had to slow her pace and backtrack to make sure he kept up. Yes, day- a time many of her people believed no sane or rational people should be awake during. He was more helpless than a newborn panther kitten- worse maybe, as the kitten at least had night vision.

Moreover, this was apparently a good day for him. Yesterday he managed to trip over a dozen obvious tree limbs, step into four very clear potholes and run in front of a very hungry bear. The Human was lucky that he was so blessed by his Light; otherwise that last event would have been the end of him. As it was she had doubled back just in time to watch the bear take a final single step before collapsing, its hide burned worse than if it had been in the center of a forest fire. The priest himself fixed her with an annoyed look, as if this was her fault, before making the several centimeter deep claw slash across his left arm disappear as if it never happened.

They had ate well that night at least. A druid might feel some residual discomfort at the death of a wildkin slain in such a manner, yet all but the most extreme of them recognized the right of a sentient being to self-preservation- whether that be from hunger or injury.

Her only demand was that they pray before the meal to the Great Bear spirit, apologizing for the necessity of its kinlings death and thanking it for the meal. To his credit the human had respectfully done this, though added in his own "May the Light bring you peace" at the end.

Over the last day, Kindihin came to wish the Light had granted him speed instead.

"At times like this I can't help but wonder if your folk love steel so much simply so that they can even better invoke the image of a tortoise, as if your speed wasn't already enough. "

The human, who was a man of cloth rather than steel, glared at her but was too out of breath to mutter a coherent reply. She continued.

" I don't know whether to curse you by your Light or my own Elune. Perhaps I should invoke them both, for only by combining forces can these divine entities overcome your handicap."

It could be done, Kindihin knew. She had seen Priests of Light and Moon utilize spells that boosted their speed, enough that even she struggled to keep pace with one of their practitioners. It was even fitting, Gneeli had once told her, for -scientifically speaking he had said- nothing natural moved faster than light. Unfortunately, her companion had not opted to learn it.

"By the light's sake" the priest shot out in one breath, before having to pause for a moment. When he recovered he continued "I am not a druid, Kindi. I am a priest, a man of cloth." He paused to cough, out of breath, and Kindi felt faintly embarrassed for him. " Priests read books, we bless our flock, and we become closer to the light. What priests _do not_ do is run marathons through the woods. "

She laughed, rich and hearty- a belly laugh she had once learned from dear Bragg. Oh humans could be so ridiculous some times.

"You're joking! I once saw a Sister of Elune jog all night and day, and then half the following night. And she still had enough energy to help fight off a Naga incursion."

She also fought hand to hand when a Naga mymindon got too close for comfort, breaking the creature's neck with grace that would shame a Monk.

He scowled "I meant _human_ priests."

She raised a finger to her chin, as if considering when in fact she already had a counterpoint ready

"I seem to remember Revil could keep up with his Worgen friend even after traveling through the night."

He snorted, loudly.

"Revil does not count. That priest uses his own hate and surliness as an inexhaustible energy source."

"The only thing I see as 'inexhaustible" is your capacity for excuses."

Still flushed, he said " I'll remind you again that you can go on without me. " He saw her gaze "I am serious Kindi, I'll be fine. The Light shall protect me. You can fly and will be much faster without me. "

 _Like it protected Gneeli, or Bragg, or even Radiant Calammy?_

But she didn't voice such bitter thoughts-it would only provoke an argument she didn't want to have. She couldn't keep them from blowing away her good cheer as if it were morning mist.

Instead, she could hear her voice straining-

"I'd rather we stick together. Who knows what danger I could find up there. "

She meant, of course, what dangers _he_ could find down here.

In truth, she certainly would have made it Shal'drassil weeks ago if she could have flown. But her wings were not strong enough to carry the human for long, and to move on ahead. And she could not leave him, not after-

The priest saw through her of course; he always could...and with the others as well. He had said once the Light could see through any shadow, whether it be physical or spiritual, and, she thought bitterly, she supposed this counted as one.

"Kindi" he began gently, and she hated him for it. "Gneeli's death was not your fault. You were not the one who drew the blade on him. It was the barbarian's fault; not yours."

"No" she said, a little more heatedly then intended "I am the one who he had to rescue, Fab. If I hadn't erred so badly against that filth-"

"-Then he may well have died against that same creature anyway. " The Priest gave a sad, but affectionate smile. "Come on, you knew Gneeli as well as I did. There was no way he would have left that battlefield without the scalp of the greatest of their fighters in his hand. No"he paused, considering " I don't think he mentally could have forced himself to leave."

His voice was kind, but firm; this was not the first time they had had this conversation. Kindi wondered if her continual remorse was starting to grate on her friend.

"If I hadn't been wounded, I could have put him to sleep with a pollen spell. I did that before, remember?" In her mind's eye, she saw a living tide of walking undeath, and a tiny figure that stood stubbornly before it like a rock before a Tsunami. "Or perhaps if we taken on our foe together, as we had so many times before. "

He pulled off his backpack and began pulling out supplies necessary for the night ahead. Blessed with some arcane Kirin Tor enchantment, their bags could hold far more than logic suggested they should- and weigh far less, too. She had stuffed entire suits of armor in there- rewards and trinkets from her deeds before and carried it all around as if it was as weightless as air.

"Kindi, you and I both know there was no winning that battle. We were outnumbered hundreds to one. Even if you had killed the barbarian chieftain, then what?"

"Then we would have escaped, and possibly saved more Dalaran lives in doing so."

She began gathering sticks, the smallest she could find, as they had done hundreds of times before. Though never, she reflected grimly, with this few in attendance

When at last he spoke, after many long moments, his voice was wistful

"So, do you believe Gneeli's death was my fault as well? I was not there to heal nor protect you."

She glanced over at him, two dozen sticks in her hands

"No, of course not. You were busy protecting Arclock's students. "

"They died anyway. Would you count their deaths against me?"

She scowled

"No, you did not slay them. In fact, you did everything to protect them."

"What about against the late Archmage? Would you fault him for not taking the precautions he should have, or not having the power of Khadgar?"

Kindi turned to him, her scowl deepening. She roughly cast the gathered sticks into the center of the makeshift campground, before almost idly raising her hands, her gaze still fixed on her friend

"Of course not, you are being ridiculous! Arclock took more pre-cautions then I had ever known a Kirin Tor to take and obviously far more than Khadgar ever would have! "

Indeed, Arclock had actually refused their request to cross over, deeming it unsafe. Had Khadgar been there and drawn the same conclusion about safety, he would done the opposite, sending adventurers on through gleefully and telling them that they would 'figure things out'.

"And blaming Arclock for not being as powerful as Khadgar is like blaming me for not being as potent as Malfurion, or you as Velen. It's silly, Fab. "

"So if you agree I am not at fault for not being able to intervene in time, if you agree Arclock was not at fault for predicting the impossible or being unreasonably powerful, why do you blame yourself for those things?"

"Because I screwed up! . I,...I mean" She put a hands to her forehead, the sticks having already grown into logs the size of her late Gnome friend. She continued, her tone wary "none of those incidents you list came about through ego! I got cocky Fab and tried to challenge the enemy chieftain one on one. If Gneeli wasn't there to rescue me-."

Suddenly, she felt a surge of energy and well-being that invigorated the body and touched the soul, washing away the guilt and doubt like it was rain flowing down from the tree leaves. For a second, her eyes magnified and adjusted to the spell, picking out even the very faintest traces of the light beyond even her normal elvish sight. Her skin felt warm as if she had been basking in the Tanaris sun. Momentarily, she even forgot what she was speaking of, so rejuvenating was the sensation.

And then it faded like the dimming of the night. A warm feeling remained, as it always did after she had been healed, but it was no longer as overwhelming to the entirety of her senses. For a second, she registered a faint disquiet yet couldn't quite place it..

Fabiano gave a wan smile "The Light heals spiritual as well as physical wounds, Kindi. However, in this case, the Light can only alleviate our inner hurts for a while its glow lasts."

He began reaching into his backpack, digging around before pulling out two enormous bedrolls made out of the finest Quel'dorei silk. It was a decadent item, one which would have revolted many of the old-fashioned in Darnassus who would have been upset at her for using something made from their reckless kin.

Fabiano tossed it to her and she caught it, as she had dozens of times before.

However, though the glow still affected her, a sense of dull melancholy and loss remained. As she rolled out the silk and tried to drift to sleep she asked

"Is this how you deal with the constant death, Fab? Just bathe in the light till it all goes away?"

She did not think he would respond, but when it came there was a note of sadness

"Everyone dies, Kindi. The best we can hope is to reunite with them one day in the Light."

It was a very... _human_ thing to say.

The Kaldorei knew death, of course. In Kindi's mind, they knew it far better than any other race, for there were no people on Azeroth that lived closer to nature than her own. Death was a part of life and vividly she could remember watching, aghast, her mother's panther devouring a young doe.

She had learned that night about the circles of life, of the patterns that all the other creatures of the world would go through. Birth, Maturation, Breeding, and, the final and briefest state, death. Her father the druid had pointed to his wife's panther, the squirrels in the trees and the birds in the air. Every beast had come from the great animal spirits that walked the boundaries between the waking and dreaming worlds, he had said. When they died, they would return to these Great Spirits and live on forever.

Already at the age of seven, she had the seed of inquisitiveness, a little kernel that would eventually grow into restlessness and rebelliousness. If that is what happened to their brothers and sisters of the wilds then what, she asked, happened to the Kaldorei when they died?

He had smiled then and pointed to the bright lights that swirled around the trees.

 _("We too come from nature little one and one day we shall return to it")_

She would eventually come to understand it intellectually but not empathetically. And, to be honest, what Kaldorei born in the last ten millennia would? Barring the rarest of accidents or the few, brief conflicts with their neighbors, most Kaldorei never knew death. Of course that Eldest Generation- those who had lived through the War of the Ancients- knew firsthand of loss and even in those days stood apart from the rest. There was a faint sadness in that generation's gaze, a melancholy that never fully dimmed with the passage of time.

Now, having traveled the world during these last turbulent years Kindi at last felt she understood their world view. Every friend made and lost during these last few years was a blow that would linger with her .

Yet her mother was still wrong in a way for though Kindi grieved for those companions who she had lost on her journey, the greatest blow came not from anything she witnessed but words she had heard-

-From the lips of a Darnassean Courier, who glumly informed her that her family had been washed away in the Cataclysm with the rest of Auberdine.

Her mother had been right, but wrong as well. The 'cruel hand of fate' had come to take her away just the same as tall the others.

(...)

Morning came and went without incident. Kindi spent the first groggy hour after her rise- _for what sane being was awake at this hour!_ \- picking berries, something she would not allocate to the human for he had invariably picked poisonous ones in the past. After another hour's breakfast the pair set off once more.

And once more, Kindi found herself quickly wishing that they had bound their hearthstones to somewhere other than the now overrun Kirin Tor camp. Or that they had not left their mounts in a Dalaran stable. Or-

Kindi broke from thoughts and, mid-bound, morphed her body into that of a Kalimdor panther. Her claws swiped out even as an enormous lupine form burst out from the underbrush. The wolf was clearly rabid, its mouth slobbering with some form of gelatinous green slime. Yet she was no helpless doe- she was a veteran and if the legion despoilers of Auchindon could not kill her, this creature certainly wouldn't.

All it took was a single swipe and her nine inch nails left the beast nearly decapitated on the forest floor.

She landed with a reflexive twist of the hips, already anticipating what was to come, for wolves never hunted alone.

She waited. Fabiano caught up, noisily and heavily panting, but straightened promptly upon sight of the dead wolf. There was a gleam of light, and the exhaustion seemed to dissipate a little. Kindi felt a moment's irritation- why didn't the priest do this while running?

The priest glanced around, as suspicious of an ambush as the Night Elf. He glanced at Kindi- and then his eyes widened as he examined the wolf more closely.

Frowning, Kindi looked down at her kill whose head was now only loosely attached to its body. Then she glanced lower-

And immediately jumped back.

The Wolf's lower stomach bubbled before her eyes with a gelatinous slime so thick that she was reminded of the aftermath of Southshore. No doubt it was just as contaminated and foul. Faintly, it almost looked like something writhed from within the slime.

And then there was a burst of the light, which enveloped the creature in its embrace. Momentarily blinded, when she came to a second later the beast was gone as if it never were.

But what it left behind, its trail, was not.

Fabiano and Kindi shared a look before wordlessly agreeing to follow, each of them feeling a respective duty, not only as champions of the world but as their respective professions, to purge the taint.

They didn't have to travel far, as bloody footprints began to turn into faint piles of gory viscera.

And then they found the wolves' den.

The phrase "Butchered as if by a wild animal" was a horribly inaccurate and trite human expression. Wild animals did not hunt to cause suffering or bloodshed- they killed for sustenance, nothing more. Most bodies she had found done in by beasts were remarkably clinical- perhaps a slash from a claw here or there, but usually done in by a pair of incisors through the neck.

This however.

It was like looking at a scene from the inside of a Scourge Slaughterhouse. Viscera and guts hung in impossible places- whole carcasses separated by multi-meter distances that could only come from someone deliberately pulling them there. The faces of the deceased wolves had clearly been mauled for some time-both before and after death. And, amidst the five that bore no signs of corruption, were two others that did.

They were both sickly green, covered in boils and warts much like the first. One of them had an eye so filled with pus that it bulged out of the socket; it looked ready to pop. The other had a tentacle that had emerged from its back- an appendage that writhed a little as she glanced at it.

Fabiano saw it too and with a hastily muttered prayer called the Light down. For the quickest micro-second, Kindi was sure she could have heard the barest hint of a screech of agony before the limb fully evaporated into dust.

As he had with the first beast, Fabiano knelt down and began beseeching the light once more to purge the corruption.

She turned her attention to the other bodies.

In her mind's eye she could picture a likely sequence for how this atrocity unfolded.

 _It was earlier in the morning and in her vision she could see a hunting pack of wolves leaving the den and the nursing mothers staying behind to tend to their young._

 _After an unknown amount of time, the hunting party would have returned. Or at least a few of them, as she remembered wolves typically hunted in larger packs then three. At first the matrons would have rushed outside to greet their kith and kin, tails wagging, eager to feast on whatever the hunters had brought._

 _Only to stop in their tracks as soon as the stench hit them and they got close enough to get a clear picture of their returning mates. Instincts would have caused the hair on their backs to stick straight. A desire for flight would war with a desire to fight and with their pups back in the den, the matron's latter instinct would have won._

 _They would have growled a message- back off. Whether triggered by this or having come with murder on their fetid minds from the outset, the corrupted would have then attacked. Judging by the wounds on the first wolf- and the corpses even now being purified- the matrons fought bravely, valiantly, but vainly._

 _The Hunters would have been the strongest of the tribe, mutated by powers most fel and, even outnumbered, the ultimate outcome favored them._

 _And it had. Even if only by one._

 _And that sole surviving wolf- angered into rabidity by corruption, perceived betrayal and pain, would have turned his hateful gaze back to the den and_

Kindi opened her eyes and walked towards the opening. She glanced back and immediately wished she had human eyes. That way she wouldn't have seen anything.

Once she would thrown up. She supposed she had the Scourge to thank for destroying her gag reflex.

Grimly, she went into the cave to bring out what lay within. The bodies of the uncorrupted would be returned to the earth; the corrupted burned by Fabiano's Holy Light.

AN NOTE:

So it is been a while since I last updated, both this and the main story, Chronicles of Convergence. Rest assured this is not because I have abandoned the story- far from it, I have actually written around 40,000 words. Rather, I have been focused on where I want to go with worldbuilding, how AU I want to be, and other issues. Expect a longer post on the next Chronicles update which, if all goes well (I am 16k words in) should be later this month.

Also, I will note, that if you ever fear I am dead or abandoned the fic, you are free to message me. I usually get back within a week.

That said, I have some long overdue Author Responses to make.

Guest  
Certainly. I think I have written 5000 words on the Hinterlands of Khuresh that you may or may not see out later this year.

Wom1  
Thank you! I hope the next chapter of Chronicles of Convergence satisfies you, as it is absolutely full of it from every angle.

The True Skull

Ehh I get that. Its just there is a difference between hating Elune and hating Elune enough that you want to kill all your living loved ones in the service of one who genocided your people.

Carre

I have already written something big that involves Ind…and Cathay, Khuresh, not-Pacifia and more! Hopefully you will see it out later this year.

MadFrog2000

Soon, very soon.

Guest

I am starting to address it. Check out some of the author notes sections of the main Chronicles of Convergence for my piece on technology. I think Ill address logistics and teleportation in the distant future as well. Ill note that I actually have the problem you address with mages and food be an important plot point.

EVA-Saiyajin

Thank you sir! I like writing metaphysical, and am going to try to do so again in the near future.


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